“I wish your father was safe at home.”
“Why, mother, you don’t worry about him–do you?” exclaimed Tom, in amazement. “The Indians always liked him, and he can go anywhere over the prairies and through the woods without guide or compass, and not get lost. And he’s a great marksman, you know: it wouldn’t do for an Indian to get in the way of his rifle.”
“But, Tom,” said the mother, taking his hand, and suddenly changing the subject, “why is it that you don’t get better faster? Your skin is real hot, and you look feverish. The doctor said you ought to have been out before this.” Tom looked down, but did not reply. “Tom,” continued she, tenderly, “something is troubling your mind. I have known it for some time. Don’t you love your mother well enough to make her your confidant? What is the matter, my son?”
Still the lad did not reply; but his heart was deeply moved by this unexpected and loving attack upon the citadel that held his secret secure, as he had supposed. Soon the tears began to stream from his eyes, and he sobbed aloud.
Mrs. Jones’s eyes closed, and her lips moved 40 as if she were in prayer; upon which Tom, after she had ceased, asked, softly,–
“Mother, are you a Christian?”
“That is a serious question, my son,” said she. “I sometimes hope that I am one; but it is a great thing to be a true follower of the Lord Jesus Christ. But why do you ask?”
“O,” replied he, embarrassed, “I don’t just know why. I know you’re good enough to be a Christian; but you never spoke to us children about it, and–I didn’t know what to think.”
Mrs. Jones seemed pained by the answer, and said,–
“Tom, I know I have been negligent in this matter.” Then she added, hesitatingly, “But your father does not feel as I do about it; and I have scarcely felt like instructing the children contrary to his views. I have ever tried to please him in everything; perhaps I have carried this too far.”