I think. But I cannot give it up now. It would be `looking
back,' after putting my hand to the plough."

They were silent for a good while, and then Philip said:

"Tell me about your father."

David doubted whether he had anything new to tell, for, as they had come
to care more for each other's company, he had often spoken to Philip of
his father. But if he had nothing new to tell, he told it all over in a
new way--a way that made Philip wonder. He told him all that I have
told you, and more,--of his father's life and work--how wise and strong
he was--how loving and beloved. He told him of his love for his Master,
of his zeal for His service. He told him of his own lessons with him,
of how he used to go with him to the North Gore and other places, and of
what he used to say, and how happy the days used to be. He told him of
his last days, and how, when it came to the end, he was so joyful for
himself and so little afraid for them, though he was going to leave them
alone and poor--how sure he was that God would care for them and keep
them safe until they all should meet again. Sometimes he spoke with
breaking voice, and sometimes, though it had grown dark by this time,
Philip could see that his cheeks flushed and his eyes shone as he went
on, till he came to the very last, and then he said:

"He told me then, at the very last--even after he had spoken about
mamma, that I was to take up the armour that he was laying down. And,
God helping me, so I will," said David, with a sob, laying down his
face, to hide his tears, on the shoulder of his friend. But, in a
little, he raised it again, and said, quietly:

"I couldn't go back after that, Philip."

"No," said Philip; and he said nothing more for a long time, nor did
David. Philip spoke first:

"And so it must be `Good-bye,' Davie?"

"Good-bye?" repeated David. "I don't understand?"

"You are to take one way and I another; so we part company."

David was silent from astonishment.

"As our fathers did," said Philip. "They were friends once, as we are,
Davie, but their paths divided, as ours must, I fear."

"It need not be so."

"It is curious to think of it," went on Philip. "If my father were to
die to-night, he would leave his children as poor as your father left
his when he died. Not that it would matter; but then my father has lost
his whole life, too. No, Davie, I fear the end will be that we must go
different ways."

"Dear Philip," said