But it is not this poor boy’s fault that he is not a Christian, for I have seen him, and learned for a certainty the real state of his mind.

The way in which it came about was this.  I marked that after service he entered the woods, as if he shunned the society of his fellow worshippers, and there I followed him, coming upon him at last, as if by accident, in a chestnut glade, the leaves of which strewed the ground—­emblem of our fading mortality.

He started as he saw me, and at first looked as if he were inclined to fly my presence, but I gently addressed him.

“Dominus vobiscum, my son,” I said.  “I am pleased to see you sometimes at the minster church.”

“I did not know I was noticed amongst so many,” he replied.

“You mean, my boy, that you would sooner your presence were not observed.  I can guess your reason too well.”

He looked so sad, that I was sorry I had spoken precipitately, and a deep red blush suffused his dark countenance.  He has a most attractive face—­so thoughtful, yet so manly; his mother’s gentle lineaments seem to have tempered the somewhat fierce and haughty bearing of his sire, as they meet in the countenance of their child.

My sympathy became so deep that I could not restrain myself and spoke out: 

“My boy, will you not confide your troubles to me, for your dear mother’s sake?  Do you not remember how she commended you to my care?  And never have I forgotten to pray daily that her God may be your God also.”

At the mention of his mother the tears filled his eyes.  We were sitting together on the trunk of a fallen tree, and he covered his face with his hands, but I could see that the tears forced their way between the fingers, and that he was sobbing violently.  He is only as yet a mere boy, and such emotion is excusable.

At last he looked up.

“I long to be a Christian like her,” he said; “over and over again she taught me, during her last days on earth, of the Christ she loved, and who, she said, was ever near her.  I have heard all about the faith she loved, yet I am an outcast from it.  What can I do?—­my father will not let me be baptized, and I dare not oppose his will; yet I sometimes think I ought to chance all, and to die, if death should be the penalty.”

“Die?  You do not surely think he would slay you?”

“I know he would.”

“In that case, my child, your duty seems plain:  your Lord calls you to give Him your love, your obedience, and to seek refuge in the fold of His church.”

“Ought I to leave my father?”

I felt very much puzzled indeed what to say.  I could have no doubt as to the lad’s duty; but then his father was his natural guardian, and in all things, save the plain duty of professing Christ, had a claim to his obedience.

“I think,” I said at last, “my Alfgar, that when he knew you were determined to be a Christian he would oppose you no longer; that is, if you were once baptized he would tolerate a Christian son as he once did a Christian wife.”