"They are saying, Matilda,--my uncle, I mean, and the wise ones;--they are saying, I heard them saying it a few weeks ago, softly, to each other, that the time must be up; and that if Messiah does not come very soon--"

"What then?" Matilda asked, for he had stopped suddenly.

"Then--they say--it must be, or may be, that he _has_ come!"

She was astonished at the changes in David's face. It flushed and paled, his lips quivered, his brows were knit; the dark eyes were like clouds and fire at once. Evidently there was a struggle going on which she had no means of gauging.

"What if he has?" she asked gently. "Would you care so very much?"

"Care!" exclaimed David, and his expression startled her.

"Care!--whether our Messiah has come, and we have not known him, and have injured him and rejected him?"

"But that is just what Isaiah said would be."

"Don't!" said David. "I can't bear it! If that is true, there will be such a cry as Zechariah said, and I will begin it. But I don't believe it, Matilda; it cannot be. I will not believe it."

He threw down his book and walked up and down the room with folded arms and a brow black as night. Hardly a boy's action, but neither was it a boy's feeling which possessed him just then. Matilda looked on, very sorry, very much awed, and entirely at a loss to know what to say. She consulted her Bible again and found a pa.s.sage which she wished to shew him; but she had to wait for the chance. David walked up and down, up and down, restlessly.

"I can't make it out!" he exclaimed. "It confuses me. If _that_ were true, then all our whole nation have been wrong, all these years; and we have lost everything; the promise made to Abraham and all."

"But Jesus will fulfil all the promises," said Matilda gently.

"To those who disowned him?" David asked almost fiercely.

"I think he will," said Matilda. "Why the first Christians were some of those very Jews."

"How can that be?" said David standing still and looking at her.

Matilda found the second chapter of Acts and handed it to him. She thought her own words were best to be few. David looked unwillingly at her book, but however took it, sat down, and under the light of the gas burner began to read. Matilda could not help furtively watching him, and it almost frightened her; the changes in the boy's face were so quick and strong. He read like one reading for his life; he never knew that Matilda was watching him; his eyes seemed to pierce the book like steel lances; and through his parted lips the breath came and went hurriedly. Matilda thought he never would get through the chapter, he was so long over it.

"May I keep this a day or two?" he said at last. Matilda joyfully a.s.sented.

"I wish I had some one to talk with about this," he said; "somebody who could answer me, or who could _not_ answer me."

"Your uncles?" Matilda suggested.

"They would only silence me."

"I wish you could see Mr. Richmond."

"Who's he?"

"He's a friend of mine, and O, the pleasantest and the nicest man! and he can answer anybody."

"Can he?" said David half smiling. "Where does he live?"

"Up in Shadywalk. I _wish_ you could see him. He could tell you just everything, and I cannot."

"You have told me so much, though, that I must know more. What is this Mr. Richmond?"

"He is a minister, David. O you would like him."

"He would be the first, then," said David.

"He is not the least like Dr. Blandford not the _least_."

"Maybe there's some chance then. Matilda, don't tell anybody of all this; it is between you and me."

"No, David, of course I shall not. Are you going to bed?"

"I am going up."

"They won't be home yet for an hour."

"I don't want to see them when they do come."

"Nor have any supper?"

"I don't care about supper. Good night."

He went off, and Matilda's heart was very tender for him. What could she do? He had carried away with him the little reference Bible; she could not look out pa.s.sages for his help any more. Had they been for his help? The whole talk looked very confused to Matilda as she remembered it; and David evidently was in much more trouble than he shewed. Matilda prayed for better help than she could give, prayed with all her heart; then found herself very sleepy and went to bed.

CHAPTER IX.

It was a few nights after this, that the children were amusing themselves in the same little reception room. Esther Francis was with them, and the elders were with company in the drawing-room. The young ones had it all their own way; they had taken tea together in what Norton declared to be a very jolly style; and now in a circle of sociable dimensions, that is, very much drawn together, they were talking over a great variety of things. All except David; he hardly said anything; he looked dark and jaded; nevertheless he listened to what was going on.

"I know one thing," said Norton; "I must be off to the country pretty soon."

"School term of no consequence"--said David.

"None at all. You see, bulbs keep no account with schoolmasters; the only account they keep is with the sun; and how they do that when the sun don't shew himself, pa.s.ses me. It's one of the queer things."

"Find a good many of them, Norton?" asked Esther smiling.

"Queer things? Lots! Don't you?"

"Well, I don't know. There are some queer people."

"_Some_. Just a few, I should think there were," said Norton. "Enough to keep one from going to sleep with sameness."

"Well, but I don't find so many," said Esther. "Am I queer?"

"Not a bit of it?"

"You speak as if it was an honour to be queer," said the young lady, bridling her pretty head.