And this was certainly the feeling of the majority. As for Margaret, she almost envied the boys, for she knew how wisely and lovingly they would be trained.
For two hours each evening Mr. Miller’s house and garden were open to them, and for the first hour he gave them something to do with their bodies—gardening, or quoits, or football, or cricket—and for the second he was at their service to tell them tales or read to them, or take walks with them, or anything else they pleased. Before they had been a week with him they all loved him, and would have done anything or given up anything for him. And he loved them greatly. He believed that every boy had the making of a hero in him, and he sought to find out how to develop the best of his nature and his powers. He liked to set the eleven to some work or play which they liked, and take the twelfth away where the two could talk confidentially to each other. The boy would pour out his very soul to his friend, telling him his ambitions, his troubles, his sins, and his hopes, as he had never told any one before. And what wise counsel he received in return, what good words to be treasured in the boy’s heart even after he became a man, no one knew but God, not even the man or the boy himself.
Mr. Harris was always very tired after the boys had gone. It was really a bit of his very life that he gave them. If the heart be not put into work of this kind very little is accomplished; but if it be heart work it can only be done at great personal cost to the worker. But he was always very happy, too, and had usually something to tell Margaret which she was glad to hear.
One evening Mr. Harris was walking over the fields with a lad called Dick Nelson, a bright, mischievous boy, “worth saving at any price,” Harris said to himself, when a question was put to him of a more direct character than any which he had ever before been called to answer. They were talking about men who had made England, especially the warriors and the statesmen, and at length they mentioned General Gordon. “He would have done more lasting work if he had been less general and more Gordon,” said Harris. “He was a very fine man, but I have always wished that he had not been a soldier. You know, Dick, that is one of my fads. I don’t like war, but I like Gordon; he was a splendid Christian fellow, true as steel.”
“You don’t like him any better because he was a Christian, though, Mr. Harris, do you?” asked the boy, looking curiously into the grey eyes beneath the shaggy brows.
“Don’t I? Indeed, I do,” said Harris, with a kindly smile.
The lad was thoughtful for a moment too, and then an exciting incident occurred; for they saw a fox running across a meadow, and of course the boy must needs chase it. What boy could resist such a chance as that? He came back hot, but pleased, and ready to endure the banter of his friend, who had been watching with an indulgent look upon his benevolent face, and thinking of his own boyhood as if it were but yesterday. After that they had a talk about amusements; but when that subject had been dropped, and a silence had fallen between them, the boy suddenly asked, “Mr. Harris, what do you think about Jesus Christ?”
Harris replied very gently, “I think He was the greatest and best Man that ever lived.”
“But don’t you think, sir,” said his questioner, wistfully, “that He must have been more than a man to do all the things He did—that is, if He ever did do them—I suppose we cannot be sure of that.”
Harris detected the tones of regret in the boy’s voice. “Why cannot we be sure?” he said. “The writers of the biographies of Jesus Christ are certainly as much to be believed as any other writers, to say the least of it; and for my part I have not any doubt that they told the truth about Him. Dick, my boy, you cannot do without Jesus Christ. He is the best Friend a man ever had—don’t doubt that; and as for a poor, hard-working lad like you, why, you will find the world a very dark place if you try to shut Him out of it.”