The tears gushed into the eyes of Laurence, and he acknowledged that Eliot had not toiled in vain.  Little Alice put up her arms to Grandfather, and drew down his white head beside her own golden locks.

“Grandfather,” whispered she, “I want to kiss good Mr. Eliot!”

And, doubtless, good Mr. Eliot would gladly receive the kiss of so sweet a child as little Alice, and would think it a portion of his reward in heaven.

Grandfather now observed, that Dr. Francis had written a very beautiful Life of Eliot, which he advised Laurence to peruse.  He then spoke of King Philip’s war, which began in 1675, and terminated with the death of King Philip, in the following year.  Philip was a proud, fierce Indian, whom Mr. Eliot had vainly endeavored to convert to the Christian faith.

“It must have been a great anguish to the apostle,” continued Grandfather, “to hear of mutual slaughter and outrage between his own countrymen, and those for whom he felt the affection of a father.  A few of the praying Indians joined the followers of King Philip.  A greater number fought on the side of the English.  In the course of the war, the little community of red people whom Mr. Eliot had begun to civilize, was scattered, and probably never was restored to a flourishing condition.  But his zeal did not grow cold; and only about five years before his death he took great pains in preparing a new edition of the Indian Bible.”

“I do wish Grandfather,” cried Charley, “you would tell us all about the battles in King Philip’s war.”

“O, no!” exclaimed Clara.  “Who wants to hear about tomahawks and scalping knives!”

“No, Charley,” replied Grandfather, “I have no time to spare in talking about battles.  You must be content with knowing that it was the bloodiest war that the Indians had ever waged against the white men; and that, at its close, the English set King Philip’s head upon a pole.”

“Who was the captain of the English?” asked Charley.

“Their most noted captain was Benjamin Church,—­a very famous warrior,” said Grandfather.  “But I assure you, Charley, that neither Captain Church, nor any of the officers and soldiers who fought in King Philip’s war, did any thing a thousandth part so glorious, as Mr. Eliot did, when he translated the Bible for the Indians.”

“Let Laurence be the apostle,” said Charley to himself, “and I will be the captain.”

Chapter IX

The children were now accustomed to assemble round Grandfather’s chair, at all their unoccupied moments; and often it was a striking picture to behold the white-headed old sire, with this flowery wreath of young people around him.  When he talked to them, it was the past speaking to the present,—­or rather to the future, for the children were of a generation which had not become actual.  Their part in life, thus far, was only to be happy, and to draw knowledge from a thousand sources.  As yet, it was not their time to do.