"An' div ye want to follow Him, an' to let yir licht shine upon the world? Div ye want to be a guid soldier, an' wull ye try it, wi' His grace?" the old man asked tenderly.
David's voice was very low. "I'm not very far on the road," he said falteringly, "an' I'm afeared there ain't much light in me—but I'd try an' do my best," he concluded earnestly.
The venerable elder proceeded with his gentle art, leading the belated enquirer on from stage to stage, seeking to discover and disclose the hidden treasures of the soul. He was never slow to be convinced of goodness in any heart that he thought sincere, and it was not long till he turned to the Moderator, proposing, as before, that this new name should likewise be enrolled among those of the faithful.
But one or two thought the examination hardly doctrinal enough, nor carried sufficiently far afield.
"Perhaps Mr. Borland would give us a word or two regarding his views on the subject of temperance," suggested Morris Hall. He was a comparatively modern elder; in fact, he had been but recently reclaimed, one of the first-fruits of a spring revival, himself snatched from the vortex of intemperance and correspondingly severe upon all successors in his folly. For largeness of charity, as a rule, is to be found only with those who have been tempted and prevailed.
"I'm not terrible well up on temperance," David began placidly; "but I don't mind givin' you my views—oh, no, not at all."
Then he sank into silence, and the Moderator had finally to prompt him. "Very well, then, Mr. Borland, give us your views on the subject."
"Well," David began hesitatingly, "my views on the subject of temperance is terrible simple. I really hardly ever take anything—never touch it at all except it's before or after meals," he assured the brethren earnestly, the younger men frowning a little, one or two of the older nodding approvingly. But none seemed to remark how generous was the margin this time-table provided for a man of moist propensities.
"Sometimes, when I run acrost an old friend, if he looks kind o' petered out," David went on sympathetically, "sometimes then I have a view or two—most always soft stuff, though," he enlarged, looking hopefully towards his spiritual betters; "most generally they takes the same view as me," he informed them gravely; "my view is to take it an' let it alone—I do both—only I never do them both at the same time," he added seriously. "You see, when I'm well it doesn't hurt me, and when I'm sick—why, mebbe I need somethin'. That's one o' my views. An', oh, yes"—he hurried on as if glad that he had not forgotten, "I always take a little when a new century comes in—I took a little when the clock struck 1900; it's been a custom for quite awhile in our family, always to take a little when a new century comes in—a man has to be careful it doesn't grow on him, you see. So I confine it pretty much to them two occasions. An' I think them's pretty much all my views, gentlemen, on the subject o' liquors. The less views a man has on them, the better. It's the worst plague there is—an' I'm gettin' more set agin' it all the time," and David nodded to the elders in quite an admonitory way.
But these views, simple and candid though they were, were far from satisfactory to Mr. Morris Hall, who violently declaimed against such laxity, and quoted statistics concerning poorhouses, jails and lunatic asylums in much the same tone, and with the same facility, that a boy exhibits when quoting the multiplication table. Mr. Hall concluded with an appeal to David's sense of shame.