When Adam returned on that Sunday afternoon from church, he fortunately did not know, though he more than suspected, what the decision of the Kirk Session had been. He knew certainly that his case must not only have come before the court, but must also, from its nature, have caused such a division of opinion as would make his position as an elder one of remark, of suspicion, and, to him, of personal pain. It was a temporary comfort, however, that he had no certain bad news to communicate to Katie, and that he could say, as he did with truth, "It wasna for me to be present, or to interfere. They have done their duty nae doot, an' I have done mine as far as I could."
When his humble Sunday meal was over, and before sunset, Adam went to visit one or two of the sick, infirm, or bedridden, who were on his list to attend to as an elder. Not until he was on his way to their homes did he realise the fact that, for the present at least, he was probably no longer an elder. But as he never had formed the habit of visiting the sick as a mere official, but had made his office only a better means, given him in God's providence, for gratifying his benevolent and Christian feelings, he went, as he was wont to do, with a peaceful spirit and loving heart. The poor and suffering whom he visited received him with their usual kindness and gratitude. They felt that Adam could not be a bad or false man; that in him was love--love in its meekness, calmness, self-possession, sympathy, and forgiveness of others. They could not, perhaps, explain the grounds of their perfect and unreserved confidence in him, yet they could not--it was impossible--entertain any doubts of his Christian character which could hinder their hearts from feeling what they in many cases expressed with their lips, that "A real guid man is Adam Mercer! It's me that should say't, for he has been aye kind and guid to me. I'm no saying wha's richt or wrang; I ken this only, that I'll stan' by Adam! I wish we had mair like him!"
CHAPTER XI
THE OLD SOLDIER AND HIS YOUNG PUPIL ON SUNDAY EVENING
On his return home after these visits, he placed Mary on Charlie's chair, beside himself, resolving, although the other members of the class were still absent, that he would nevertheless teach Mary as their representative, as well as for her own sake. There had come into his possession one of those small books of guidance and instruction which many intellectual people--so called by men, but probably not so recognized by the angels, who minister even to children--affect to despise, just as they would despise any "still small voice" when compared with the loud storm, the brilliant fire, and the powerful, rock-moving earthquake. This book was but a number of texts wisely arranged by a bedridden Christian, for each day of the year, with one of special and deeper import for its Sabbaths. The text for this Lord's Day was--"They who know thy name will put their trust in thee"; and Adam said to Mary, when she had repeated it as the lesson for the day, "Do ye understan' what is meant, my dearie, by trusting God?"
"I'm no sure," she replied.
"But ye surely ken what it wad be to trust me, Mary?" continued the Sergeant.
Mary looked up and smiled. She made no reply, but was evidently puzzled by an attempt she was unconsciously making to understand the possibility of want of trust in the Sergeant. So, finding no response, he again asked, "Wad ye trust me, my wee woman?"
Mary seemed vexed, and said, "What wrang hae I dune? Ye telt me aye to ca' you faither; I canna help; sae ye maunna be angry, for I hae nae faither but you."
"Richt! verra richt!" said the Sergeant; "but, Mary dear, wad ye trust God as weel as me?"