CHAPTER VII.

THE LONGING REALIZED.

IT was dusk, and Davie was lying restless and in pain upon his bed. He had not been so well ever since that talk with the doctor, when he told him of his wish. The doctor saw how excited and feverish he was from the eager way in which he questioned him when next he came to his bedside.

"Have you found out who the minister was, sir? Do you think he'll come to see me?"

It was really the kinder thing to tell him the worst at once. Suspense was bad for the boy.

"Yes, Davie, I know who it was, but he doesn't live in London. He lives two or three hundred miles away, and so you must give up all hope of having a visit from him. Why, you don't mean to say you are going to cry about it! That isn't like our King Davie."

"Oh! It don't signify. It ain't of much consequence. I—"

Evidently he did not wish his tears to be seen. He had shed very few since he had been in the hospital—just on one or two occasions when he had been in intense pain that was all. By the manner, therefore, in which he received the news, Dr. Scott knew he felt the disappointment keenly, and he hurried away that the boy might have his cry out alone and in secret. When he returned, the subject was not resumed, and Davie managed to give him a parting smile.

The next day, however, on visiting his little patient, Dr. Scott was concerned to find him in a highly feverish state. He would allow no talking, and at once ordered a composing draught.

The medicine took prompt and good effect, but even in his sleep Davie was restless, frequently moaning, and talking rapidly and incoherently. But as the hours passed, he slumbered more quietly, and from the happier expression upon his face, his nurse knew that less harassing thoughts were passing through his brain.

That was true, for Davie was dreaming he was in that place of delight—Westminster Abbey. The organ, he thought, was pealing out a grand triumphant march, and the voices of the choir boys sang out an answering response. Then, as the music died away, a minister got up in the pulpit and began to preach. It was the same gentleman, who, during the last six weeks, had been so frequently in Davie's waking thoughts. Very attentively he listened to hear what he said, but he was far away and could not catch the words. This distressed him so much that he called out in a shrill, eager voice,—

"Please speak louder. I can't hear what you say."

"What is it, my poor child? What can't you hear?"

Davie opened his eyes and—"had" he been dreaming, or "hadn't" he? For there, leaning over him, was the face he had seemed to see in his dream—the face of the clergyman who had preached that wonderful "real" sermon in the church near Regent Street. It wore just the old earnest, loving look, only now, as it bent down so near to his, it appeared to Davie that the dark eyes were full of yet deeper compassion and tenderness than they had been on that night many weeks ago. And it was for "him," there could be no mistake about that now. Davie felt somehow as if he had known him all his life. He raised himself in a sitting position, and cried out eagerly,—

"Oh! I am so glad you are come. I've been wanting you ever so. I want 'you' to tell me how I can be a king."

He did not ask in vain.

Just for a moment Mr. Kilmarnock failed to comprehend the child's meaning. Then the remembrance of his sermon flashed across his memory. One brief earnest prayer went up from his heart that his words might be blessed to the poor little fellow, and sitting down by his bedside, he told him—without troubling Davie to answer any questions—the story of man's disobedience, of man's condemnation, and of man's redemption.

Davie, listening, understood it as he had never understood it before, for the Holy Spirit directed the words, and "now" they "entered his heart" with a new and marvellous meaning. It was for "him" then that Christ had died. He had suffered that "he" might live a life of endless joy and happiness; He had shed His blood that his sins—and Davie "felt" now that they were many—might be washed away. And all for "love"; for love of "him," poor, ragged, ignorant Davie!

"And so, dear child, you see that whether you live or die, you are Christ's. You are not afraid to die, 'now,' are you?"

"No."

The word came after a moment's pause, and then Davie lay for a while with closed eyes, and with a look of "restfulness" and peace upon his face that it had not worn for many a day. Presently he went back to the old question.

"Please, will you tell me now," he asked, as he looked eagerly at Mr. Kilmarnock, "how I can be a king? You said I could be a king that night, you know."

"'Kings and priests unto God and His Father.' Davie, do you know what is the chief duty of a king?"

He thought a moment before replying. A king did so many things that it was puzzling to specify any particular one or even a few of them.

"He's got to wear a crown, and ride in a grand carriage. Then he makes laws, and everybody must do as he tells them, and he can do just what he likes."

"No, a king cannot do just what he likes any more than anybody else can, and he has to obey the laws himself, as well as see that his people obey them. But I didn't mean that exactly. A duty is not something we may or can do, but something we 'ought' and 'must' do, and a king's chief duty is to serve others, not to be served himself. He has to live for his people; to see that they are ruled by just and wise laws; to take care that their health and education receive proper attention. In fact, to study every day of his life how to make them happy, and healthy, and prosperous. A king's whole life, therefore, is spent in service for others.

"Now, Davie, if you really love Christ, you will want to prove it by serving Him, and you will feel so happy and glad in doing it. That is what it means by 'kings and priests unto God.' A priest, you know, is the same as a minister, and if they do their duty, both kings and ministers spend their lives in working for, and serving others. When we love God then, and serve Him, we are kings and priests unto Him. Ah! Davie, that's a grand and blessed thought, and it should make us try very earnestly to please Him. We can never 'pay back' anything that God has done for us, but we 'can' try to keep His commandments, we 'can' be gentle, and loving, and patient, and we need never let a day pass without doing something to help others and make them happy."

"But supposing—"

"Yes, Davie."

"Supposing I was to die. I couldn't be a king then, because I couldn't serve God. I couldn't do 'anything' for 'anybody' then."

"But Davie, don't you know that in heaven you will be able to serve God far more and far better than you could here?"

"Shall I, sir? I didn't know it. I thought as how there wouldn't be nothing to do up there."

"That is a great mistake. I can't say exactly what will be given you to do, but it will be sure to make you happy and keep you always busy. Then, Davie, it will be 'perfect' service. Here, you know, it is so natural for us to be selfish, and impatient, and discontented that no service of ours is quite free from evil of some sort. But in heaven there is no sin, and so it will be a perfect service, holy and acceptable unto God."

Again there came a pause in the conversation, and again Davie broke it.

"I'm glad I shall be able to serve God in heaven," he said simply and heartily, "because, now I come to think of it, perhaps after all there wouldn't be anything much that I could do for Him here."

"I was in the hospital some time before you awoke, Davie," said Mr. Kilmarnock, with a slight change in his voice, "and the lady who was so kind as to let me know that you wished to see me, told me many things about you. She told me how hard you used to work to help your mother; how bravely you have borne pain since you have been here; and how patient and obedient you have been. She told me another thing, too, though perhaps it was such a pleasure to yourself, that you will scarcely believe me when I tell you that God would accept it as a service done to Him. I mean the delight you take in singing in order to please others and soothe away their pain. You see I have learned a great deal about you, 'King' Davie."

The child muttered something about being "so glad," but the excitement, caused by the clergyman's visit, and the long talk were beginning to tell upon him, and he lay back upon the pillow, pale and exhausted.

The nurse was quick to observe it, and brought him some light and nourishing food. That revived him, and he was able to give Mr. Kilmarnock, who had left his bedside for a little while, a bright and affectionate smile of welcome on his return.

"Davie," he said, "I have been to beg to be allowed to remain with you all night. It is against the rules for a visitor to do such a thing, but in this case it will be permitted. So I shall sit by you and watch you till you go to sleep."

That was very nice. It seemed to Davie that he had nothing left to wish for now. For a while he lay quite quietly; then certain uneasy movements of his limbs, and long-drawn breaths, gave token of the return of another fit of restlessness.

"Is there nothing I can do for you, my poor boy, to make you more comfortable?"

Davie shook his head in answer to the low-toned, compassionate inquiry of his new nurse.

"Poor little laddie! I wish I could just take you up in my arms and bear all the pain for you myself."

"Oh! Will you?—If I might—I—"

"What Davie?"

"If only you'd take me up and nurse me. Nobody has, ever since I wasn't much bigger than a baby, and mother—"

He did not finish the sentence, for a swift, interrogatory glance at the nurse in charge had been answered in the affirmative. How could she do otherwise when the doctor had said that very probably this would be the child's last night on earth, and when the clergyman, in order to get to him without delay, had travelled hundreds of miles in the greatest haste? So Davie was lifted from his bed, wrapped in a blanket, and lay happy and content in the strong arms of the clergyman, against whose breast the curly head nestled in perfect confidence and love. Then the eyelids drooped and Davie slept, but so quietly that, as the hours went by, Mr. Kilmarnock frequently put his cheek close to the boy's lips, for it was only by the slight wave of air he then felt, that he knew he yet lived.

So, motionless he sat with the child in his arms. For, though his limbs ached with the cramped position, he took care that no movement should disturb him. And all the while he was offering up silent prayer and praise—prayer that Davie might be accepted in God's sight as one of His children redeemed by the precious blood of Christ, and praise and thanksgiving that he himself had been permitted to come to the wandering lamb, and direct him home to the fold and the Good Shepherd.

And Davie still slept—slept on till day-dawn, when he awoke with a wonderful look of "renewed life" upon his face.

As the nurse took him from Mr. Kilmarnock's arms and laid him in his bed again, she whispered, "There is a change for the better, I feel sure."

And she was right. Davie had been to the very borderland of death, but that long sleep was the turning-point. He awoke, not to die, but to live, not yet to join that glorious company of "kings and priests unto God," in heaven, but to render on earth, for a while at any rate, that greatest and most blessed of work which consists of service done to God and man.

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