“And everybody is glad because of Davie,” said Jessie. “I think Miss Bethia meant it for Davie to go to college and be a minister like papa, and that is why mamma is so glad, and all of us.”
“Nonsense! Miss Bethia meant it for mamma and all of us. She would have said it was for Davie, if she had meant it for him. Do you think Miss Bethia meant it for you, Davie? Do you, mamma?” said Ned, as he saw a smile exchanged between them.
“She meant it for mamma, of course,” said David.
“Davie,” said his mother, “read Miss Bethia’s letter to Philip and the children.”
David looked at his mother, and round on the rest, then back again to his mother, a little surprise and hesitation showing in his face.
“Do you think so, mamma?” said he, colouring.
“They will like to hear it, and I shall like them to hear it. Shall I read it for you?” said his mother, smiling.
David rose and went into his mother’s room, and came back with the letter in his hand. Giving it to her without a word, he sat down in a corner where the light could not fall on his face. Mrs Inglis opened the letter and read:
“Dear David Inglis,—It is a solemn thing to sit down and write a letter which is not to be opened till the hand that holds the pen is cold in death; and so I feel at this time. But I want you to know all about it, and I must put it in as few words as possible. I will begin at the beginning.
“I never had much hope of your father after that first hard cold he took about the time that Timothy Bent died. I worried about him all winter, for I couldn’t make it seem right that his life and usefulness should be broken off short, just when it seemed he had got ready to do the most good. I would have put it right, in my way, if I could have done it. But it was not the Lord’s way, and I had to give it up. It never was easy for me to give up my own way, even to the Lord. But He is long-suffering and slow to anger; and by and by He showed me how I might help make up your father’s loss to the church and the world.