“Christ died for us! That does me good. That’s like cold water when the fever is on and you are fearful thirsty,” and Chauncy moved his lips as if drinking.
“Then there is another verse—I don’t know as I say it exactly, but I can give the idea—that when we were without strength, Christ died for the ungodly.”
“Yes, yes,” and again a thirsty soul drank of this cool goblet of good news.
“Plympton, I say!”
He spoke with much emphasis, as if he had a matter of great importance to relate or a favor to ask.
“I don’t know as you have a prayer handy you could say, have you?”
Walter hesitated. What prayer could he say that would help another? There was the Lord’s Prayer, though. He could say that. Kneeling and holding Chauncy by the hand—how tightly Chauncy clung to that strong, friendly hand—Walter began, “Our Father!”
“Our Father,” repeated Chauncy, and then followed Walter through the prayer.
Walter added a few more words in which he tried to approach an ever present, ever willing Saviour, beseeching that Chauncy might be helped right there to give himself entirely up to God; braiding into his words, the touching, solemn collect: “Assist us mercifully, O Lord, in these our supplications and prayers.”
Walter then rose from his knees.