there not something about armour?” asked Frank, who was not very sure of his Bible knowledge.

“Yes. ‘Put ye on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand in the evil day, and having done all to stand.’ That is Paul, too.”

“Yes,” said Jem, slowly. “That was to be put on against the wiles of the devil. ‘Ye wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers; against the rulers of the darkness of this world; against spiritual wickedness in high places.’”

Frank uttered an exclamation.

“They needed armour, I think.”

“Not more than we do now, my boy. We have the same enemies,” said his aunt.

It was her way at such times to let the conversation flow on according to the pleasure of the young people, only she put in a word now and then as it was needed for counsel or restraint.

“It sounds awful, don’t it?” said Jem, who was always amused when his cousin received as a new thought something that the rest of them had been familiar with all their lives. “And that isn’t all. What is that about ‘the law in our members warring against the law in our minds?’ What with one thing and what with another, you stand a chance to get fighting enough.”

His mother put her hand on his arm.

“But, mamma, this thought of life’s being a battle-field, makes one afraid,” said Violet.

“It need not, dear, one who takes ‘the whole armour.’”

“But what is the armour?” said Frank. “I don’t understand.”

Violet opened the Bible and read that part of the sixth chapter of Ephesians where the armour is spoken of; and the boys discussed it piece by piece. David, who had scarcely spoken before, had most to say now, telling the others about the weapons and the armour used by the ancients, and about their mode of carrying on war. For David had been reading Latin and Greek with his father for a good while, and the rest listened with interest. They wandered away from the subject sometimes, or rather in the interest with which they discussed the deeds of ancient warriors, they were in danger of forgetting “the whole armour,” and the weapons which are “not carnal but spiritual,” and the warfare they were to wage by means of these, till a word from the mother brought them back again.

“‘And having done all to stand,’” said Frank, in a pause that came in a little while. “That does not seem much to do.”

“It is a great deal,” said his aunt. “The army that encamps on the battle-field after the battle, is the conquering army. To stand is victory.”

“Yes, I see,” said Frank.

“It means victory to stand firm when an assault is made, but they who would be ‘good soldiers of Jesus Christ’ have more to do than that. His banner must be carried to wave over all the nations. The world must be subdued to Him. And when it is said, ‘Be strong,’ it means be strong for conquest as well as for defence.”

And then, seeing that the boys were moved to eager listening, Mrs Inglis put aside her anxious thoughts about her husband, and went on to speak of the honour and glory of being permitted to fight under Him who was promised as a “Leader and Commander to the people”—and in such a cause—that the powers of darkness might be overthrown, the slaves of sin set free, and His throne set up who is to “reign in righteousness.” Though the conflict might be fierce and long, how certain the victory! how high the reward at last! Yes, and before the last. One had not to wait till the last. How wonderful it was, she said, and how sweet to believe, that not one in all the numberless host, who were “enduring hardness as good soldiers of Jesus Christ,” but was known to Him, and beloved by Him; known even by name; watched over and cared for; guided and strengthened; never forgotten, never overlooked. “Safe through life, victorious in death, through Him that loved them, and gave Himself for them,” added the mother, and then she paused, partly because these wonderful thoughts, and the eager eyes fastened on hers, made it not easy to continue, and, partly, because she would fain put into as few words as might be, her hopes and desires for the lad who was going so soon to leave them.

“Francis,” said she, softly, “would it not be something grand to be one of such an army, fighting under such a leader?”

“Yes, Aunt Mary, if one only knew the way.”

“One can always offer one’s self as His soldier.”

“Yes, if one is fit.”

“But one can never make one’s self fit. He undertakes all that. Offer yourself to be His. Give yourself to Him. He will appoint you your place in the host, and make you strong to stand, patient to endure, valiant to fight, and He will ensure the victory, and give you the triumph at the end. Think of all this, Francis, dear boy! It is a grand thing to be a soldier of the Lord.”

“Yes, Aunt Mary,” said Frank, gravely. Then they were all silent for a long time. Indeed, there was not a word spoken till Mr Inglis’ voice was heard at the door. Jem ran out to hold old Don till David brought the lantern, and both boys spent a good while in making the horse comfortable after his long pull over the hills. Mrs Inglis went to the other room to attend to her husband, and Violet followed her, and Frank was left alone to think over the words that he had heard. He did think of them seriously, then and afterwards.—He never quite forgot them, though he did not act upon them and offer himself for a “good soldier of Jesus Christ” for a long time after that.

In a little while Mr Inglis came in and sat down beside him, but after the first minute or two he was quite silent, busy with his own thoughts it seemed, and Frank said nothing either, but wondered what his uncle’s thoughts might be. The discomfort of cold and wind and of the long drive through sleet and rain, had nothing to do with them, the boy said to himself, as, with his hand screening his weak eyes from the light and heat of the fire, he watched his changing face. It was a very good face to watch. It was thin and pale, and the hair had worn away a little from the temples, making the prominent forehead almost too high and broad for the cheeks beneath. Its expression was usually grave and thoughtful, but to-night there was a brightness on it which fixed the boy’s gaze; and the eyes, too often sunken and heavy after a day of labour, shone to-night with a light at once so peaceful and so triumphant, that Frank could not but wonder. In a little while Violet came in, and she saw it too.

“Has anything happened, papa?” asked she, softly.

He turned his eyes to her, but did not speak. He had heard her voice but not her question, and she did not repeat it, but came and sat down on a low stool at his feet.

“Are you very tired, papa?” she asked at last.

“Not more so than usual. Indeed, I have hardly thought of it to-night, or of the cold and the sleet and the long drive, that have moved my little girl’s compassion. But it is pleasant to be safe home again, and to find all well.”

“But what kept you so long, papa?” said Jem, coming in with the lantern in his hand. “Was it Don’s fault? Didn’t he do his duty, poor old Don?”

“No. I was sent for to see Timothy Bent. That was what detained me so long.”

“Poor old Tim!” said Violet, softly.

“‘Poor old Tim’ no longer, Violet, my child. It is well with Timothy Bent now, beyond all fear.”

“Has he gone, papa?”

“Yes, he is safe home at last. The long struggle is over, and he has gotten the victory.”

The boys looked at one another, thinking of the words that had been spoken to them a little while ago.

“It is Timothy Bent, mamma,” said Violet, as her mother came in. “He is dead.”

“Is he gone?” said her mother, sitting down. “Did he suffer much? Were you with him at the last?”

“Yes, he suffered,” said Mr Inglis, a momentary