“I dare say you have a guess though, by this time, Mr. Weir,” I said; “and I think I have a guess too.”

“Well, sir, if he’d only give in, I think he would be far happier.  But he can’t see his way clear.”

“You must give him time, you know.  The fact is, he doesn’t feel at home yet.’  And how can he, so long as he doesn’t know his own Father?”

“I’m not sure that I rightly understand you,” said the old man, looking bewildered and curious.

“I mean,” I answered, “that till a man knows that he is one of God’s family, living in God’s house, with God up-stairs, as it were, while he is at his work or his play in a nursery below-stairs, he can’t feel comfortable.  For a man could not be made that should stand alone, like some of the beasts.  A man must feel a head over him, because he’s not enough to satisfy himself, you know.  Thomas just wants faith; that is, he wants to feel that there is a loving Father over him, who is doing things all well and right, if we could only understand them, though it really does not look like it sometimes.”

“Ah, sir, I might have understood you well enough, if my poor old head hadn’t been started on a wrong track.  For I fancied for the moment that you were just putting your finger upon the sore place in Tom’s mind.  There’s no use in keeping family misfortunes from a friend like you, sir.  That boy has known his father all his life; but I was nearly half his age before I knew mine.”

“Strange!” I said, involuntarily almost.

“Yes, sir; strange you may well say.  A strange story it is.  The Lord help my mother!  I beg yer pardon, sir.  I’m no Catholic.  But that prayer will come of itself sometimes.  As if it could be of any use now!  God forgive me!”

“Don’t you be afraid, Mr Weir, as if God was ready to take offence at what comes naturally, as you say.  An ejaculation of love is not likely to offend Him who is so grand that He is always meek and lowly of heart, and whose love is such that ours is a mere faint light—­’a little glooming light much like a shade’—­as one of our own poets says, beside it.”

“Thank you, Mr Walton.  That’s a real comfortable word, sir.  And I am heart-sure it’s true, sir.  God be praised for evermore!  He is good, sir; as I have known in my poor time, sir.  I don’t believe there ever was one that just lifted his eyes and looked up’ards, instead of looking down to the ground, that didn’t get some comfort, to go on with, as it were—­the ready—­money of comfort, as it were—­though it might be none to put in the bank, sir.”

“That’s true enough,” I said.  “Then your father and mother—?”

And here I hesitated.