"I think I see myself," said Robert.
"Rubbert's a queer laddie," Mr. Thomson remarked, looking tenderly at his son. "He was objectin' to Mr. Chalmers sayin' he had a noble Cause."
Robert blushed again.
"There's nothing wrong with the Cause," he grumbled, "but I hate talking about it."
"'Truth hath a quiet breast,'" quoted Mr. Seton.
There was a silence in the little parlour that looked out on the garden. They were all thinking the same thing—would they ever sit here together again?
So many had gone away! So many had not come back. Mrs. Thomson gave a choking sob and burst out: "Oh! Mr. Seton, your boy didn't come back!"
"No," said Mr. Seton gently, "my boy didn't come back!"
"And oh! the bonnie laddie he was! I can just see him as well; the way he used to come swinging into church with his kilt, and his fair hair, and his face so full of daylight. And I'm sure it wasna for want of prayers, for I'm sure Papa there niver missed once, morning and night, and in our own private prayers too—and you would pray just even on?"
"Just even on," said Mr. Seton.
"And He never heeded us," said Mrs. Thomson.
Mr. Seton smiled at the dismayed amazement in her tone.
"Oh, yes, He heeded us. He answered our prayers beyond our asking. We asked life for Alan, and he has given him length of days for ever and ever."
"But that wasna what we meant," complained Mrs. Thomson. "Oh! I whiles think I'm not a Christian at all now. I cannot see why God allows this war. There's Mrs. Forsyth, a neighbour of ours—you wouldn't meet a more contented woman and that proud of her doctor son, Hugh. It was the biggest treat you could give her just to let her talk about him, and I must say he was a cliver, cliver young man. He did wonders at College, and he was gettin' such a fine West End practice when the war began; but nothing would serve but he would away out to France to give his services, and he's killed—killed!" Her voice rose in a wail of horror that so untoward a fate should have overtaken any friend of hers. "And oh! Mr. Seton, how am I to let Rubbert go? All his life I've taken such care of him, because he's not just that awfully strong; he was real sickly as a bairn and awful subject to croup. Many's the time I've left ma bed at nights and listened to his breathing. Papa used to get fair worried with me, I was that anxious-minded. I niver let the wind blow on him. And now...."
"Poor body!" said Mr. Seton. "It's a sore job for the mothers." He turned to Mr. Thomson. "Perhaps we might have prayers together before I go?"
Mr. Thomson brought the Bible, and sat down close beside his wife.
Jessie and Robert and Alick sat together on the sofa, drawn very near by the thought of the parting on the morrow. Mr. Seton opened the Bible.
"We shall sing the Twenty-third Psalm," he said.
Sing? The Thomsons looked at their minister. Even so must the Hebrews have looked when asked to sing Zion's songs by the waters of Babylon. But James Seton, grown wise through a whole campaign of this world's life and death, knew the healing balm of dear familiar things, and as he read the words they dropped like oil on a wound:
"The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want.
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green: He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.
My soul He doth restore again;
And me to walk doth make
Within the paths of righteousness
Ev'n for His own name's sake.
Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale,
Yet will I fear none ill:
For Thou art with me; and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still.
* * * * *
Goodness and mercy all my life
Shall surely follow me;
And in God's house for evermore
My dwelling-place shall be."
It is almost the first thing that a Scots child learns, that the Lord is his Shepherd, that he will not want, that goodness and mercy will follow him—even through death's dark vale.
Death's dark vale, how trippingly we say it when we are children, fearing "none ill."
Mrs. Thomson's hand sought her husband's.
She had been unutterably miserable, adrift from all her moorings, bewildered by the awful march of events, even doubting God's wisdom and love; but as her old minister read her childhood's psalm she remembered that all through her life the promise had never failed; she remembered how stars had shone in the darkest night, and how even the barren plain of sorrow had been curiously beautified with lilies, and she took heart of comfort.
God, Who counteth empires as the small dust of the balance, and Who taketh up the isles as a very little thing, was shaking the nations, and the whole earth trembled. But there are some things that cannot be shaken, and the pilgrim souls of the world need fear none ill.
Goodness and mercy will follow them through every step of their pilgrimage. The way may lie by "pastures green," or through the sandy, thirsty desert, or through the horror and blood and glory of the battlefield, but in the end there awaits each pilgrim that happy place whereof it is said "sorrow and sighing shall flee away."
"We shall sing the whole psalm," said Mr. Seton. "The tune is 'French.'"
Penny Plain