"Do you not even believe in God?"

The lad stood up, he whose life until these months had been a
prayer, whose very slumbers had been worship. He stood up, from
some impulse--perhaps the respectful habit of rising when addressed
in class by this professor. At first he made no reply, but remained
looking over the still heads of his elders into that low red sunset
sky. How often had he beheld it, when feeding the stock at frozen
twilights. One vision rose before him now of his boyhood life at
home--his hopes of the ministry--the hemp fields where he had
toiled--his father and mother waiting before the embers this
moment, mindful of him. He recalled how often, in the last year, he
had sat upon his bedside at midnight when all were asleep, asking
himself that question:--

"Do I believe in God?"

And now he was required to lay bare what his young soul had been
able to do with that eternal mystery.

He thrust his big coarse hand into his breast-pocket and drew out a
little red morocco Testament which had been given him when he was
received into the congregation. He opened it at a place where it
seemed used to lie apart. He held it before his face, but could not
read. At last, controlling himself, he said to them with dignity,
and with the common honesty which was the life of him:--

"I read you a line which is the best answer I can give just now to
your last question."