“And aren’t we to say our prayers, father?”
“We are to ask God for what we want. If we don’t want a thing, we are only acting like pagans to speak as if we did, and call it prayer, and think we are pleasing him.”
I was silent. My father resumed.
“I fancy the old man we are going to see found out the tune of his life long ago.”
“Is he a very wise man then, father?”
“That depends on what you mean by wise. I should call him a wise man, for to find out that tune is the truest wisdom. But he’s not a learned man at all. I doubt if he ever read a book but the Bible, except perhaps the Pilgrim’s Progress. I believe he has always been very fond of that. You like that—don’t you, Ranald?”
“I’ve read it a good many times, father. But I was a little tired of it before I got through it last time.”
“But you did read it through—did you—the last time, I mean?”
“Oh yes, father. I never like to leave the loose end of a thing hanging about.”
“That’s right, my boy; that’s right. Well, I think you’d better not open the book again for a long time—say twenty years at least. It’s a great deal too good a book to let yourself get tired of. By that time I trust you will be able to understand it a great deal better than you can at present.”