"What about?"

"But I mean--do you feel like _talking_--about anything?"

"Depends on the subject, Maggie. Hark to that woodp.e.c.k.e.r!"

"Mr. Murray does _not_ feel like talking, I know," remarked Flora. "He feels--if he ever feels!--lazy."

"No, Miss Flora, not exactly. And yet, how delicious this quiet is!"

"And the smell of the pines!"

"And the warm, luxurious air!"

"And the light through the pine branches, and upon the coloured leaves yonder."

"Yes, and the blue of the sky," said Mr. Murray, who lying upon his back had a good view. "Blue, through the pine needles. Such an ethereal, clear blue; not like summer's intensity."

"I like summer best," said Flora.

"I like this. But what did you want to talk about, children?"

"O Uncle Eden! a great many things. You see, we do not all think alike."

"Naturally."

"And we want you to tell us how we ought to think."

"_You_ do," said Mr. Murray laughing. "That will answer for ten years old. I am sure the others are more independent."

"But we want to know what _you_ think, Uncle Eden--about ever so many things. We have been saving them up till you came. Ditto wants to know what Christians ought to do--about some things."

"And I hope you will tell him, Mr. Murray," said Flora, "what Christians ought _not_ to do--about some things."

Mr. Murray raised himself up on his elbows and looked at the young people around him. It was a very pretty picture. Fair young faces, that life had not clouded, intelligent and honest; bright young figures in all the freshness of neat attire and excellent personal care; the setting of the green wood, the brown carpet of pine needles, the hazy October air, here and there the crimson of a Virginia creeper, here and there the tawny hues of a cat-briar or a wild grape-vine; stillness and softness over all, the chirrup of a cricket, the cawing of two crows flying over, the interrupted tap of the woodp.e.c.k.e.r, just making you notice how still and soft it was; and then the bright, living young faces raised or turned, and waiting upon him. Mr. Murray looked and smiled, and did not at once speak; then he asked what subject came first. So many answers were begun at once that all had to stop; then Maggie, getting the field, said--

"We want to know how much a Christian ought really to give, Uncle Eden."

"Say, rather--how much he ought to do," put in Meredith.

"Yes," added Flora; "we do want instruction on that point. Some of us are rather wild."

"Too big a subject for the present time and place," responded the referee of the little company. "To-morrow is Sunday; let us keep it for to-morrow, and come out here, or to some other place, and discuss it."

"That is delightful!" cried Maggie clapping her hands. "Now, what were some of the other things, Ditto?"

"About the Saxons. But Mr. Murray did not hear our first story."

"Oh, I know. I guess he knows. You do know about the old Saxons, don't you, Uncle Eden?"

"I know there was such a people."

"And you know they were very good and very bad--both at once; and we wanted to know _how_ they could be so much worse, and yet so much better, than people nowadays."

"How 'so much better'?"

"They told the truth, Uncle Eden."

"There were no cowards and no marriage-breakers among them," Meredith added.

"And then how 'so much worse'?"

"Oh, they were cruel! they offered human sacrifices; they were frightfully cruel."

"Yes," said Mr. Murray thoughtfully; "the contrast seems strange. They were a n.o.ble people in many ways."

"But Pastor Harms says they are not half so good now that they are Christians," Maggie went on.

"If that is true, there must be a reason for it."

"Yes, Uncle Eden, of course."

"And that reason cannot be found, in their Christianity."

"But how is it, Uncle Eden?"

"Human nature is very much alike at all times, my child."

"But the old Saxons were not like the old Romans, Uncle Eden. The word of a Saxon was better than a Roman's oath."

"And the modern Saxons are not like their forefathers," said Meredith; "at least, according to Pastor Harms."

"I have no doubt he is right."

"And Frenchmen are very different from Englishmen," added Flora.

"And both from Americans. And the Dutch from all three. We might go on indefinitely."

"Yet they are all descended from Noah's sons," Meredith remarked.

"It is a very curious subject, and rather deep for some of the present company. Many things go to make the differences between one nation and another. In the first place, the several families of Shem, Ham and j.a.pheth are all strongly marked."

"Are they, sir?"

"Then, among the tribes of any one family, differences grow up from many causes. From the sort of country they inhabit, the climate that prevails, the scenery their eyes rest on, the ease or difficulty of obtaining food, and the means necessary to that end; from the religion they believe in, their situation with respect to commerce and intercourse with other nations; their habits of life superinduced upon all these."

"But the modern Saxons live where the old Saxons did, sir?"

"Barely. The country was at that time all one wild tract of forest and moor, where life had need be of the simplest; and where it was sustained in great measure by the chase and by a rude husbandry. No cities, no churches, no libraries, no merchants, no lawyers, no fine furniture, no delicate living. n.o.body therefore wanted money, and n.o.body tried to get it. That makes all the difference in the world, children."