"My dear father, almost you persuade me
to be a missionary!"
"Ah, son Richard, if you had the 'call' it would be no uncertain one!
You would not say 'almost;' but it is a grand thing to feel your heart
stir to the trumpet, even though you don't buckle on the armor.
A respectable, cold indifference makes me despair of a soul. I have
more hope for a flagrant sinner."
"I am sure," said John, "our camp on the San Saba would welcome you.
One night a stranger came along who had with him a child--a little
chap about five years old. He had been left an orphan, and the man
was taking him to an uncle that lived farther on. As we were sitting
about the fire he said, 'I'm going into the wagon now. I'm going to
sleep. Who'll hear my prayers?' And half a dozen of the boys said,
'I will,' and he knelt down at the knee of Bill Burleson, and clasped
his hands and said 'Our Father;' and I tell you, sir, there wasn't
a dry eye in camp when the little chap said 'Amen.' And I don't believe
there was an oath or a bad word said that night; every one felt as
if there was an angel among us."
"Thank you, John Millard. I like to hear such incidents. It's hard
to kill the divinity in any man. And you are on the San Saba? Tell
me about it."
It was impossible for Richard to resist the enthusiasm of the
conversation which followed.
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