"He is very far above us," replied Childers. "It is scarcely a question of God."
"'He that hath seen Me, hath seen the Father,'" returned the boy eagerly.
"And what precisely does that mean?" asked Childers, rather tenderly.
Paul leapt to his feet. "Ah, what!" he cried. "I see that that's the question. But I will not believe that God is far, Mr. Childers; He is near, very near, in the Person of His Son."
After a moment, Childers, too, got up. He had decided not to speak. He linked his arm in the other's affectionately. "Let us go," he said.
(3)
The month drew to its close; fair success attended the Mission; and one day Dick and Paul said good-bye to the rest, and to a smiling, cheering crowd of children on the station platform, setting off in the toy train which steamed importantly by the fuchsia-hedges and the old tin mines, to Douglas and civilisation. They were off to Keswick, for the great Convention. Paul had long wanted to go, and was all eagerness for it. His companion had been several times before, and, as always, was the more steady and self-contained. At Liverpool they stayed a night with friends, and were walking through the little Westmoreland town the following evening.
The streets were fairly full. Clergymen in semi-clerical dress—black coat and grey trousers, or vice versa—and moustaches abounded, but still more, young earnest men in grey flannels and bright smiling young women. Little parties moved up and down the street, frequently singing or humming hymns. Fragments of hymn-tunes drifted out of open windows, and a party leisurely rowing shorewards, were singing well in unison. Paul began himself to sing. "'Oh that will be Glory for me,'" he hummed, his head high, scenting the pine-woods.
"You old crow," said Dick.
"Well, if I can't sing," retorted Paul, "I can at least make a joyful noise."