“Like William Tell and John Howard.”
“Like a great many missionaries,” said Violet. And a great many more were mentioned.
“But, aunt,” said Frank, “you said like a great many people we meet in real life. I don’t believe I know a single man like that—one who forgets himself, and lives for others. Tell me one.”
“Papa,” said David, softly. His mother smiled.
“It seems to me that all true Christians ought to be like that—men who do not live to please themselves—who desire most of all to do God’s work among their fellow-men,” said she, gravely.
Frank drew a long breath.
“Then I am afraid I don’t know many Christians, Aunt Inglis.”
“My boy, perhaps you are not a good judge, and I daresay you have never thought much about the matter.”
“No, I have not. But now that I do think of it, I cannot call to mind any one—scarcely any one who would answer to that description. It seems to me that most men seem to mind their own interests pretty well. There is Uncle Inglis, to be sure—But then he is a minister, and doing good is his business, you know.”
“Frank,” said Jem, as his mother did not answer immediately, “do you know that papa might have been a banker, and a rich man now, like your father? His uncle offered him the chance first, but he had made up his mind to be a minister. His uncle was very angry, wasn’t he, mamma?”