“Nick,” said he, “I wish to God I were your father.”
After that they all went home, very merry, to breakfast, Nick and I coming after them. Nick was silent until we reached the house.
“Davy,” said he, then, “how old are you?”
“Ten,” I answered. “How old did you believe me?”
“Eighty,” said he.
The next day, being Sunday, we all gathered in the little church to hear Mr. Mason preach. Nick and I sat in the high box pew of the family with Mrs. Temple, who paid not the least attention to the sermon. As for me, the rhythm of it held me in fascination. Mr. Mason had written it out and that afternoon read over this part of it to Nick. The quotation I recall, having since read it many times, and the gist of it was in this wise:—
“And he said unto him, ‘What thou wilt have thou wilt have, despite the sin of it. Blessed are the stolid, and thrice cursed he who hath imagination,—for that imagination shall devour him. And in thy life a sin shall be presented unto thee with a great longing. God, who is in heaven, gird thee for that struggle, my son, for it will surely come. That it may be said of you, ‘Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver, I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.’ Seven days shalt thou wrestle with thy soul; seven nights shall evil haunt thee, and how thou shalt come forth from that struggle no man may know.’”