The Comrade in White | Page 4

strained in the long strain of the runners. We
fainted with the fears of a father's heart. We saw Ahimaaz outrun his
rival yet falter in his message. And we heard the blow upon David's
heart of Cushi's stroke. "And the king said unto Cushi, Is the young
man Absalom safe? And Cushi answered, The enemies of my lord the
king, and all that rise against thee to do thee hurt, be as that young man
is."
There were tears in the women's eyes as the preacher called us to see
the stricken and weeping king climbing with weary step to the chamber
over the gate. And in a solemn hush we heard the cry of his anguish
"--O my son Absalom! my son, my son Absalom! would God I had
died for thee. O Absalom, my son, my son!"
We had anxious fathers and mothers and wives and sisters in the
Church that day, and it was as though our own sorrows were all
gathered up into the old, unhappy, far-off things of which the preacher
spoke. I had a dear one to be concerned for, but I was thinking now of
some one else. For Widow McDonald was there, and the days had
grown into weeks since last she had tidings of John--and he was her
only boy.
Suddenly she rose and slipped out. I followed her, for there was an odd,

silent friendship between us, and I thought that I might help. To my
surprise she did not turn homewards, but down the Glen, and there I
saw that some one was waiting for her by the pine wood. "I saw your
sign, sir," she said, "and I guessed you brought news of John. Oh, sir,
tell me quick, is he safe?"
"He is safe," the stranger answered. I could not see His face, but He
seemed weary and far-travelled. It was His voice that made me wonder.
For as He said "safe," it was as a new word to me, so full of healing and
of peace that it laid to rest every fear of my unquiet heart.
"And will he be home soon?" It was the mother who was speaking
now.
"I have taken the dear lad home," answered the stranger. "His room has
been long prepared for him in my Father's house. He has fought a good
fight. He was wounded, but his wounds are healed. He was weary, but
he has found rest." And so speaking He looked at us, and as the mother
clasped my hand I knew that the truth was breaking on her too.
"He is dead," she sobbed.
"No," said the stranger, "he is alive, for he has laid down his life that he
might take it again."
There was silence then, and the stranger turned to leave us. Even in her
grief the mourner was mindful of what was due to Him who had taken
upon Himself the burden of sorrowful tidings.
"Come back with us, and break bread, and rest a while," she said, "for,
sir, you seem spent, and it is out of a kind heart that you have spoken."
"I may not tarry," He made answer, "for there are many who need me,
and I must go to them, but for thy comfort thou shalt first know who
hath brought thee tidings of thy son's passage through death to life."
I dare not try to tell what happened then under the shadow of the pines,
but somehow we knew our eyes looked into the face of the soldiers'

_The Comrade in White_; and we knew Him. And then His hand was
lifted in blessing, and we heard this word, that is now as the music of
our daily lives: "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not
as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled,
neither let it be afraid."
* * * * *
We walked in a strange, calm silence to the widow's cottage, and then
as we parted she turned to me a face filled with heavenly peace--"My
dear boy lives," she said.

III
MAIMED OR PERFECTED?
"Now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous but grievous:
nevertheless, afterward, it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness
unto them which are exercised thereby."
--HEBREWS xii:11.
"Six months passed within the danger zone, produces a subtle but
marked change. Bright lads become men, who bear all the marks of
having passed through a solemn purification by fire. And the subtle
influence, as thus depicted, is communicated to us.... To say that the
horrors of war have subdued and overawed them is but part of the
explanation. It seems nearer to the truth to add, that these harrowing
experiences, whatever they may have been,