He would not answer: and then all at once I was appalled––who had not feared before.
“Tell me!” I demanded.
He reached out and touched my hand––a fleeting, diffident touch––and gently answered, “Ay, lad; your feet will stray.”
“No, no!” I cried.
“The feet of all children,” said he. “’Tis the way o’ the world. They isn’t mothers’ prayers enough in all the world t’ change the Shepherd’s will. He’s wise––the Shepherd o’ the lambs.”
“’Tis sad, then,” I expostulated, “that the Shepherd haves it so.”
“Sad?”
“Ay––wondrous sad.”
“I’m not able t’ think ’tis sad,” said he. “’Tis wise, Dannie, I’m thinkin’, t’ have the lads wander in strange paths. I’d not have un suffer fear an’ sorrow, God 62 knows! not one poor lad of all the lads that ever was. I’d suffer for their sins meself an’ leave un go scot free. Not one but I’d be glad t’ do it for. But still ’tis wise, I’m thinkin’, that they should wander an’ learn for theirselves the trouble o’ false ways. I wisht,” he added, simply, “that they was another plan––some plan t’ save un sorrow while yet it made un men. But I can’t think o’ none.”
“But an they’re lost?”