"And they, won't they ever fight?" demanded the boy anxiously.

"They do not believe that fighting with fists, or sticks, or like wild
beasts," said his mother, "ever wins anything worth while."

"Never, mother?" cried the boy, anxiety and fear in his tones. "You
would fight, you would fight to-night, you would fight the Rector."

"Yes, my boy," said his mother quietly, "that kind of fighting we
believe in. Our people have never been afraid to stand up for the right,
and to suffer for it too. Remember that, my boy," a certain pride rang
out in the mother's voice. She continued, "We must never be afraid
to suffer for what we believe to be right. You must never forget that
through all your life, Larry." Her voice grew solemn. "You must never,
never go back from what you know to be right, even if you have to suffer
for it."

"Oh, mother," whispered the boy through his sobs, "I wish I were brave
like you."

"No, no, not like me," whispered his mother, putting her face down to
his. "You will be much braver than your mother, my boy, oh, very much
braver than your mother."

The boy still clung to her as if he feared to let her go. "Oh, mother,"
he whispered, "do you think I can be brave?"

"Yes, my boy," her voice rang out again confident and clear. "It always
makes us brave to know that He bore the cross for us and died rather
than betray us."