"Nothing else in the world seems worth while in comparison, when one
really thinks about it," said David.

"The only wonder is that there are not more soldiers, and that they are
not more in earnest," said Frank.

"All may be soldiers of Christ Jesus," said David, softly.

"Even boys?" said Frank.

"Papa says so. Boys like you and me and Jem. Papa was a soldier in the
army of the Lord, long before he was my age. He told me all about it
one day," said David, with a break in his voice. "And he said the
sooner we enlist the better `soldiers' we would be, and the more we
would accomplish for Him."

"Yes," said Frank, "if one only knew the way."

"It is all in the Bible, Frank," said David.

"Yes, I suppose so. It is a wonder you have not become a `soldier' long
ago, David. How glad your mother would be. It is the _only_ thing, she
thinks."

All this last was said while Jem had gone to ask at a farm-house door
whether they had not taken the wrong turning up above, and nothing more
was said when he came back. Indeed, there was not time. The next turn
brought the station in sight, and they saw the train and heard the
whistle, and had only time for hurried good-byes before Frank took his
place. Jem and Davie stood for a little while looking after the train
that bore their friend away so rapidly, and then they turned rather
disconsolately to retrace their steps over the muddy roads in the
direction of home.

CHAPTER THREE.

If any one had suddenly asked David Inglis to tell him what had been the
very happiest moments during all the fourteen happy years of his life,
he would probably have gone back in thought to the day, when on the
banks of a clear stream among the hills, his very first success as a
fisherman had come to him. Or the remembrance of certain signal
triumphs on the cricket ground, or at base-ball, might have come to his
mind. But that would only have been in answer to a sudden question. If
he had had time to think, he would have said, and truly too, that the
very happiest hours of all his life had been passed in their old wagon
at his father's side.

So when he found, next day, that instead of sitting down to his lessons
in a corner of the study, he was to drive his father over to the Bass
Neighbourhood, to attend old Mr Bent's funeral, you may be sure he was
well pleased. Not that he objected to books as a general thing, or that
any part of his pleasure rose out of a good chance to s