“And you have been forgetting this? That hast not changed, Davie.”
“No, mamma—but—I am so good for nothing. You don’t know—”
“Yes, I know. But then it is not one’s worth that is to be considered, dear. The more worthless and helpless we are, the more we need to be made His who is worthy. And Davie, what do we owe to ‘Him who loved us, and gave Himself for us?’”
“Ourselves, mamma, our life, our love—”
“And have you given Him these?”
“I don’t know, mamma.”
“And are you content not to know?”
“I am not content—but how am I to know, mamma,” said David, rising and kneeling down on the broad stone beside her. “May I tell you something? It was that night—at the very last—papa asked me if I was ready to put on the armour he was laying down; and I said yes; and, mamma, I meant it. I wished to do so, oh, so much!—but everything has been so miserable since then—”
“And don’t you wish it still, my son?”
“Mamma, I know there is nothing else that, is any good, but I cannot make myself care for it as I did then.”