night thy soul shall be required of thee!” The young man much resented this directness of attack, and in the war of words which followed when they met he did not scruple publicly to insult Mr. Clare, without respect for his gray hairs.
Angel flushed with distress.
“Dear father,” he said sadly, “I wish you would not expose yourself to such gratuitous pain from scoundrels!”
“Pain?” said his father, his rugged face shining in the ardour of self-abnegation. “The only pain to me was pain on his account, poor, foolish young man. Do you suppose his incensed words could give me any pain, or even his blows? ‘Being reviled we bless; being persecuted we suffer it; being defamed we entreat; we are made as the filth of the world, and as the offscouring of all things unto this day.’ Those ancient and noble words to the Corinthians are strictly true at this present hour.”
“Not blows, father? He did not proceed to blows?”
“No, he did not. Though I have borne blows from men in a mad state of intoxication.”
“No!”
“A dozen times, my boy. What then? I have saved them from the guilt of murdering their own flesh and blood thereby; and they have lived to thank me, and praise God.”
“May this young man do the same!” said Angel fervently. “But I fear otherwise, from what you say.”
“We’ll hope, nevertheless,” said Mr. Clare. “And I continue to pray for him, though on this side of the grave we shall probably never meet again. But, after all, one of those poor words of mine may spring up in his heart as a good seed some day.”