Something else was doing him good. When Frank came to Doctor Bower's to live, he knew nothing of religion as a personal matter. He had been to church and Sunday-school ever since he could remember. He knew his Catechism perfectly, and had learned many lessons in the Bible. He could give a clear account of the principal doctrines of the Church, and had read many good books, but still Christianity was to Frank a thing outside of him, a good thing—something for which he had a great respect and even reverence, but still no particular concern of his. By degrees, however, under the influence of the good doctor's instruction, and perhaps still more under that of the thoroughly Christian spirit which pervaded the family, a power was growing up in his heart which promised to work a reformation in the hitherto conceited and headstrong boy.
Frank was learning that the love of his heavenly Father, manifested in His sending His only Son to die for us miserable sinners, who lay in darkness and the shadow of death, was love for him. He began to have some sense of his own sinfulness and inability to make himself better, and to feel his need of that atonement of which he had always heard. He began to long for holiness—to hunger and thirst after righteousness—to strive against his besetting sins. He was looking forward to Easter with trembling joy, as the time when he should be confirmed and admitted to the Holy Communion; and though often stumbling and sometimes falling in his course, he was on the whole, advancing in the Christian life.
Herbert had observed with great satisfaction Frank's success in his struggle with the anger aroused by Ned's reproaches. He had always been fond of Frank, though they were so very unlike, and maintained a good deal of influence over him—an influence which was all the stronger because he never paraded or presumed upon it, or injured its power by offering unnecessary advice and interference. He was willing that Frank should take his own way, even when that way did not seem to him the very best, and rarely gave an opinion unasked. This forbearance on Herbert's part made Frank all the more willing to listen to him when he did speak.
It was this feeling—this desire to avoid unnecessary interference, which had caused Herbert to leave the arrangement of the journey to Frank. He saw that Frank was ambitious of managing the whole affair himself, and as he supposed him to understand all about it, Herbert was content to be "only a passenger." Neither Herbert nor Agatha had uttered one word of annoyance or reproach, and Frank felt this forbearance more keenly than a thousand angry words.
"What does the conductor say?" asked Herbert, as Frank returned to his seat.
"He thinks we shall not get further than the next station," was the reply. "The snow grows deeper every minute, and drifts very badly."
"It is almost dark, and we have gone very slowly for the last hour," observed Herbert, trying to look out of the window. "I wish we had set out yesterday. But, after all, we acted for the best. We wanted to see father off, and no one could foresee this storm."
"I wish you had never come with me at all!" exclaimed Frank, in a half-choked voice. "I guess you will think twice before you do it again!"
"Herbert always thinks twice before he does anything," replied Agatha. "But really, Frank, I wish you would not feel so bad about it! It was a mistake, and everybody makes mistakes sometimes, even Herbert. Don't you remember how he emptied the ink bottle instead of the cologne over Miss Barker the day she fell down-stairs?"
"And an excellent remedy it proved," said Herbert, laughing at the remembrance of an exploit of which he had never heard the last. "It brought her to her senses and the use of her tongue in a moment. But indeed, Frank, you are too much cast down about this matter. It is unfortunate, of course, but I do not see that any greater harm is likely to come of it than losing the Christmas party, and some anxiety to your father and mother. By the way, I wonder what has become of our trunks?"