"Ye dinna' believe Christ died for sinners," the older man said sternly; "an' ony minister wha doesna' believe that—he's wi'oot a gospel, my son."
"You don't understand me, father," Gordon remonstrated earnestly; "you state the thing too severely—perhaps I don't just believe it in the way you do, but——"
"There's only the yin way to believe yon," interrupted his father; "you an' me's the same kind o' sinners, my son—an' we need the same kind o' a Saviour. Forbye, ye think we're a' divine, I'm dootin'; that's what they say aboot ye, onyway—an' I'm thinkin' I've gathered it from yir sermons mair nor once."
"Not exactly, father," I heard Gordon answer. "What I do teach is, that every man has the divine within him; and if we but appeal——"
"I dinna' ken what ye've got inside o' ye," broke in the champion of truth, "but I'm sick an' tired o' all inside o' me—naethin' but sin an' misery—naethin' but filthy rags," he added, careless of the unseemly metaphor. "An' there's mair—ye dinna' believe there's ony use in prayer; nae guid ava', forbye juist ha'ein' fellowship wi' God. An' ye dinna' believe there's ony use in prayin' for the things we want—ye dinna' think it maks ony difference; ye're feart o' the laws of natur'—ye think God's a servant in His ain hoose, like as if He couldna' dae onythin' He wants to dae."
"But I do believe in prayer, father—of course I do. Perhaps I don't just believe that it alters or affects the outward course of things; but at the same time——"
"Then ye maun settle it wi' the Word of God," the old man answered solemnly; "it aye bids us to ask for what we want; an' it tells us God's oor Heavenly Faither—an' what for wud He no' dae things for us, Him, wi' all power in His hands. Oh, my son, my son, ye'll change yir mind some day, I'm dootin', when yir sair heart's callin' oot for the love o' the livin' God."
And thus the sorrowful dialogue made its way.
I think it was the very next day Gordon told me he had resigned St. Andrew's. He told me his reason, too; which I knew already. My heart leaped towards the children, I remember, but I scarce knew why; tenderly, passionately, pityingly, my heart went out to my children, to whom I knew it would mean the most.
"Where will we go to live?" was one of the first questions I asked. For I did not seek, then, to turn Gordon from his purpose. I knew too well how impossible that would be; besides, I felt no honourable course was open to him but the one he had already chosen.