THE MIDNIGHT A, B, C
"I HATE learning Scripture! At least—I don't like it—or see the good of it," said Robbie, his eager tone diminishing as he got through his sentence, and his eyes met those of his father's, a patient invalid, sitting by the fire.
If there was one person Robbie was devoted to, it was his father. So while he was speaking, his eyes turned naturally to those quiet grey ones, which had looked out on the world so tenderly for so many years.
He pushed his school Bible away, and went over and stroked the cramped thin hand, looking inquiringly into the dear face.
"Yes, Robbie, I understand that. I mean, that I remember the days when I thought it a great task to learn Scripture."
"Well—is there any good?" asked Robbie, hesitating, "I don't mean in reading it, of course, but in learning it by heart—just like a parrot?"
"You have given me a good many questions to answer in that one sentence," said his father, fondly, "but I'll answer one first. It is good; I only wish I had learned more."
Robbie opened his eyes wide.
"Sometimes I try to see how many Psalms and chapters, or portions, I can say through, but I am always sorry there are not more—"
"Why? You can read them yourself."