There is not in our church a more active, earnest, devoted Christian worker than Mr. Gear.  He is one of the board of trustees, and about the only man on it who is not afraid of Jim Wheaton.  He rarely misses a prayer-meeting, and though he does not speak very often he never speaks unless he has something to say.  And that is more than can be said of some of those who “occupy the time” in our prayer-meetings.  I understand that Mr. Hardcap was not altogether satisfied with Mr. Gear’s “evidences” when he appeared before the session.  But if daily life affords the true “evidences” of Christian character, there are very few of us that might not be glad to exchange with Mr. Gear.  I doubt whether Dr. Argure would think he was sound in the faith.  And if the “faith” is synonymous with the Westminster Assembly’s Confession of it, I do not believe he is.  Deacon Goodsole has confidentially hinted to me his fear that Mr. Gear has some doubts concerning the doctrine of election; and that he is not quite clear even on the doctrine of eternal punishment.  It is not impossible.  But I do not believe there is a member of our church whose faith in a present, prayer-hearing God is stronger.  His first step toward securing a chapel for the Sabbath-school has been taken already.  It was a meeting of the Sabbath-school teachers at his own house to pray for a chapel.  And he builds on that prayer-meeting a strong assurance that he will get it.  I do not think he is quite sound in the catechism.  I wish I were as sound in the faith.

I have often wished to know how he solved his old doubts.  If I could find his specific for skepticism, I thought to myself, it would be of inestimable value to others.  So with some hesitation, lest I should awaken the old unbelief, I asked him the question the other day.

“How did you finally settle your old difficulties concerning Christian truth?” said I.

“I never have,” said he quietly.  “They disappeared of themselves, as the snow disappears from Snow-cap when May comes.”

The fire burns low upon the hearth.  The risen moon casts her soft light through the Eastern window and bathes the room with her radiance.  The mountains, mist clad, stand as shadows of their daily self, more beautiful in their repose than in the full glory of the busy day.  The baby sleeps quietly, nestled close to his mother’s breast, too big I tell her for her arms; but she protests I’m wrong.  And still I sit, silent, and the past defiles before me.

At length Jennie breaks the silence.  “What are you pondering so deeply, John?”

“I was thinking, Jennie, how much I owe the little woman who persuaded me to this dear home, who convinced me that I was, or at least ought to be, a Christian more than a Congregationalist, and who taught me that I could work for Christ without infringing on my daily duties, and so brought to me all the flood tide of happiness that makes my life one long song of joy.”