here is One who understands every boy, and
understands each separate boy as well as if there were no other boy in
the whole world.'

'Tell me who it is!' demanded Davie.

'That is what I have to _teach_ you; mere _telling_ is not much use.
_Telling_ is what makes people think they know when they do not, and
makes them foolish.'

'Well, what is his name?'

'I will not tell you that just yet; for then you would think that you
knew Him when you knew next to nothing about Him. Look here! Look at
this book!' He pulled from his pocket a copy of Boethius. 'Look at the
name on the back of it; it is the name of the man who wrote that book.'

Davie spelled it out.

'Now you know all about the book, don't you?'

'No, sir, I don't know anything about it.'

'Well, then, my father's name is Robert Grant; you know now what a good
man he is!'

'No, I don't!' replied Davie.

And so Donal led Davie to see that to know _the name_ of Jesus, and to
know _about_ Jesus is not to know _Jesus_.

'I know _Him_!' cried Faraday in triumph.

George Macdonald makes Faraday's text the master-passion of his hero's
life to the last. All through the adventures recorded in the book, Donal
Grant behaves like a man who is very sure of God. '_I know Him_,' he
seems to say. '_I know Him._' And the closing sentences of the story
tell us that 'Donal is still a present power of heat and light in the
town of Auchars. He wears the same solemn look, the same hovering smile.
That look and that smile say to those who can read them, "_I know whom I
have believed_." His life is hid with Christ in God; he has no anxiety
about anything; God is, and all is well.'

VI

'_I know whom I have believed._'

Pascal had the words engraved upon his seal; Canon Ainger left
instructions that they should be inscribed on his tomb at Darley Abbey;
but, like Donal Grant, Michael Faraday wove them into the very warp and
woof, the fiber and fabric of his daily life.

'Speculations!' he cried in dismay, 'speculations! I have none! I am
resting on certainties! _For I know whom I have believed and am
persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him
against that day!_'

Happy the heads that, in the soul's last straits, find themselves
pillowed serenely there!

XVII

JANET DEMPSTER'S TEXT

I

Sitting here in my pleasaunce on the lawn, surrounded by a riot of
hollyhocks, foxgloves, roses, geraniums, and other English flowers that
s