The Making of a Minister Ey

« Ah, mother,” he would say, wistfully, “it is
not a great sermon, but do you think I’m preach-
ing Christ? That is what I try, but I’m carried
away and forget to watch myself.”

“The Lord has you by the hand, Gavin; and,
mind, I dinna say that because you’re my laddie.”

“Yes, you do, mother, and well I know it, and
yet it does me good to hear you.”

That it did him good I, who would fain have
shared those days with them, am very sure. The
praise that comes of love does not make us vain,
but humble rather. Knowing what we are, the
pride that shines in our mother’s eyes as she looks
at us is about the most pathetic thing a man has
to face, but he would be a devil altogether if it
did not burn some of the sin out of him.

Not long before Gavin preached for our kirk
and got his call, a great event took place in the
little room at Glasgow. The student appeared
for the first time before his mother in his minis-
terial clothes. He wore the black silk hat, that
was destined to become a terror to evil-doers in
Thrums, and I dare say he was rather puffed up
about himself that day. You would probably
have smiled at him.

“It’s a pity I’m so little, mother,” he said with
a sigh.

*You’re no what I would call a particularly
long man,” Margaret said, “ but you’re just the
height I like.”

Then Gavin went out in his grandeur, and
Margaret cried for an hour. She was thinking
of me as well as of Gavin, and, as it happens, I
know that I was thinking at the same time of her.