“Yes, your life, sleeping at home in quiet, has not prepared you for that trial,” said the doctor. “But others have kept upright habits under the same, you know—and God helps those who are doing their best.”
Harry sighed.
“I mean to do my best,” he added; “and if it was not for feeling bad, I should like it. I do like it”—and his eye sparkled, and his smile beamed, though the tear was undried.
“I know you do!” said Dr. May, smiling, “and for feeling bad, my Harry, I fear you must do that by sea, or land, as long as you are in this world. God be thanked that you grieve over the feeling. But He is ready to aid, and knows the trial, and you will be brought nearer to Him before you leave us.”
“Margaret wrote about the Confirmation. Am I old enough?”
“If you wish it, Harry, under these circumstances.”
“I suppose I do,” said Harry, uneasily twirling a button.
“But then, if I’ve got to forgive the Andersons—”
“We won’t talk any more of that,” said the doctor; “here is poor Mary, reconnoitring, to know why I am keeping you from her.”
Then began the scampering up and down the house, round and round the garden, visiting every pet or haunt or contrivance; Mary and Harry at the head, Blanche and Tom in full career after them, and Aubrey stumping and scrambling at his utmost speed, far behind.