"You did not," answered Philip. "It was the old bird that was the fighting cock!"
"Well, dear Philip," said Celia, turning to her brother, "this is the great question for you and me: Are we willing to accept Christ's work, and to place no reliance upon our own works? He will be all or nothing. We cannot save ourselves either wholly or in part. Our salvation is either done, or to do; and if it be yet to do, it can never be accomplished."
"Then what place do you find for good works in your system?"
"No place, as the efforts of the slave to set himself free;[[11]] every place, as the endeavor of the child to show his love to the reconciled father."[[12]]
"Well," said Philip, reflectively, "I found long ago that your view was the soil which grew the finest crop of them. Don't look at me so, Patient. Let me talk as I think; it is natural to my mind to express itself as I do. I don't mean anything wrong."
"The Lord will have that out of you, Mr. Philip, if you be His."
"Well," replied Philip, gravely, "I suppose He knows how."
"Ay, He knows how," answered Patient, sadly. "But don't you give Him more work in that way than you can help, Sir. The surgeon's knife may be very necessary, but it never can be otherwise than painful."
Celia did not quite agree with Patient here; but it was a secondary point, and she said nothing. Philip looked at his watch, and, declaring that he could not stay another minute, kissed Celia and Patient, saying, "A Landrécies!" as he left the room.
"I see a long, weary walk for Mr. Philip, Madam," remarked Patient, when he was gone. "If he be to reach the good City at all, 'twill sure be by a path of much affliction."