Mr. Charles Bright was principal of the Emburg schools the fall that Parson Weaver came to take charge of the Methodist Episcopal church at that place.  He was 30 years of age, a nervous, sensitive man, both of which characteristics had been intensified by severe work in the school room.  He was less than the average height and thin in flesh, the scale beam tipping at 120 when he stood on the platform to balance the weight.  His face was thin and his beard scattered, but his large black eyes were as keen as a lance, and they always seemed to see everything that came within the range of vision.  He was fairly educated, but in no sense a great scholar.  His patrons called him “Professor,” but he made no claim to the title, and it was offensive in his ears when applied to himself.  He was characterized with excellent common sense, and, best of all, was a man of resources.  He was an excellent classroom worker, managed his school well, and was held in high esteem by his fellow-teachers and his pupils.  Above all, he was a man whose personality impressed itself upon those with whom he associated, and whose character was strong and wholesome, making itself felt upon his pupils continuously.

To this man came Parson Weaver on a memorable morning, when the following dialogue ensued, after the two had made themselves known to each other: 

“I have a son,” said the parson, “whom I should like to send to school to you.”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Bright, “send him along, and we will endeavor to take care of him, amongst us.”

“Yes,” said the Elder, “but I am grieved to be obliged to say that my boy is very wayward.  He has been expelled from school so often, and has had so much trouble with his teachers that I doubt if you can do anything with him.  I thought, however, that I would come and speak to you about him, and if you were willing to try him, at least for a little while, I should be under great obligations.  For, really, it is a terrible thing, sir, for one to feel that he must give up a first-born son and see him go down to destruction.  And yet I am compelled to say frankly to you that I fear our boy is almost beyond hope.”

This was said in an agonized tone that told how deeply the sorrow had taken hold of the father’s heart.  There is a sentence somewhere that reads, “If thou canst, have mercy on us and save our son, for he is grievously tormented.”  The world is much the same now as it was a good many years ago, isn’t it?

“How old is your boy?” asked Mr. Bright in a quiet, measured tone.

“Nearly seventeen,” replied the parson, “but he is greatly behind in his school work.  As I said, he has been turned out of school till he hates it, and, to tell the truth, he has done little but roam the streets for the last few years.  I feel that I ought to be ashamed, being his father, to make such a confession, but it is the truth, and I felt that you ought to know about it.”