"Now, Davie," said Donal, "you said you knew all about addition, but you have not done this sum correctly."
"I have only made a blunder, sir."
"But a rule is no rule if it is not carried out. Everything goes on the supposition of its being itself, and not something else. People that talk about good things without doing them are left out. You are not master of addition until your addition is to be depended upon."
The boy found it hard to fix his attention: to fix it on something he did not yet understand, would be too hard! he must learn to do so in the pursuit of accuracy where he already understood! then he would not have to fight two difficulties at once--that of understanding, and that of fixing his attention. But for a long time he never kept him more than a quarter of an hour at work on the same thing.
When he had done the sum correctly, and a second without need of correction, he told him to lay his slate aside, and he would tell him a fairy-story. Therein he succeeded tolerably--in the opinion of Davie, wonderfully: what a tutor was this, who let fairies into the school-room!
The tale was of no very original construction--the youngest brother gaining in the path of righteousness what the elder brothers lose through masterful selfishness. A man must do a thing because it is right, even if he die for it; but truth were poor indeed if it did not bring at last all things subject to it! As beauty and truth are one, so are truth and strength one. Must God be ever on the cross, that we poor worshippers may pay him our highest honour? Is it not enough to know that if the devil were the greater, yet would not God do him homage, but would hang for ever on his cross? Truth is joy and victory. The true hero is adjudged to bliss, nor can in the nature of things, that is, of God, escape it. He who holds by life and resists death, must be victorious; his very life is a slaying of death. A man may die for his opinion, and may only be living to himself: a man who dies for the truth, dies to himself and to all that is not true.
"What a beautiful story!" cried Davie when it ceased. "Where did you get it, Mr. Grant?"
"Where all stories come from."
"Where is that?"
"The Think-book."
"What a funny name! I never heard it! Will it be in the library?"
"No; it is in no library. It is the book God is always writing at one end, and blotting out at the other. It is made of thoughts, not words. It is the Think-book."
"Now I understand! You got the story out of your own head!"
"Yes, perhaps. But how did it get in to my head?"
"I can't tell that. Nobody can tell that!"
"Nobody can that never goes up above his own head--that never shuts the Think-book, and stands upon it. When one does, then the Think-book swells to a great mountain and lifts him up above all the world: then he sees where the stories come from, and how they get into his head.--Are you to have a ride to-day?"
"I ride or not just as I like."
"Well, we will now do just as we both like, I hope, and it will be two likes instead of one--that is, if we are true friends."
"We shall he true friends--that we shall!"
"How can that be--between a little boy like you, and a grown man like me?"
"By me being good."
"By both of us being good--no other way. If one of us only was good, we could never be true friends. I must be good as well as you, else we shall never understand each other!"
"How kind you are, Mr. Grant! You treat me just like another one!" said Davie.
"But we must not forget that I am the big one and you the little one, and that we can't be the other one to each other except the little one does what the big one tells him! That's the way to fit into each other."
"Oh, of course!" answered Davie, as if there could not be two minds about that.
