Gods Men Read Online Free PDF Page A

heart and blurted his thoughts. “Mama, somehow I’m beginning to see it, we’re really beggars.”
    She leaned on the table upon her outspread hands. “Why, Clem!”
    He went on unwillingly, hardening himself still more. “A Chinese boy called us beggars, and I lit into him. Now don’t look at me like that, Mama. William Lane came by at that moment, and he—he helped me to stop. But he thought the boy was right.”
    â€œI tremble for you, darling. If we lose our faith, we have nothing left.”
    â€œI want more faith, Mama.” His brain, honest yet agile, was seeking proof at last.
    â€œI don’t see how Papa could show more faith, Clem. He never wavered, even when we lost little Artie. He sustained me.”
    Her voice broke, and her full small mouth quivered. The tears, always waiting like her smile, ran from her golden brown eyes.
    â€œHe could have more faith,” Clem said.
    â€œBut how, dear?”
    â€œIf he wouldn’t go and tell people when the bread is gone—at least if he wouldn’t tell the missionaries.”
    He lifted his eyes to hers, and to his amazement he saw clear terror. Her round cheeks, always pale, turned greenish. She did not deceive him, and for this his love clung to her always. She held out her hands in a coaxing gesture, and when he did not move, she came to him and knelt beside the bamboo stool upon which he sat, her face level with his.
    â€œSon, dear, what you’re saying I’ve said, too, in my own heart, often.”
    â€œThen why don’t you tell Papa?” he demanded. He could not understand why it was that though he loved her so much he no longer wished to touch her or be touched by her. He dreaded a caress.
    She did not offer it. She rose and clasped her hands and looked down at him.
    â€œFor why you can’t do it, neither,” she said. “It would break his heart to think we had doubted.”
    â€œIt’s not doubt—it’s just wanting proof,” he insisted.
    â€œBut asking God for proof is doubt, my dearie,” she said quickly. “Papa has explained that to us, hasn’t he? Don’t you remember, Clem?”
    He did remember. His father, at the long family prayers held morning and evening every day, had taught them in his eager careful way, dwelling upon each detail of God’s mercy to them, that to ask God to prove Himself was to court Satan. Doubt was the dust Satan cast to blind the eyes of man.
    â€œAnd besides,” his mother was saying, “I love Papa too much to hurt him, and you must love him, too, Clem. He hasn’t anybody in the world but us, and really nobody but you and me, for the children are so little. He has to believe in our faith, to keep him strong. And Papa is so good, Clem. He’s the best man I ever saw. He’s like Jesus. He never thinks of himself. He thinks of everybody else.”
    It was true. Though sometimes he hated the unselfishness of his father, though his father’s humility made him burn with shame, he knew these were but aspects of a goodness so pure that it could not be defiled. He yielded to its truth and sighed. Then he rose from the stool and looked toward the table.
    â€œIs Papa home?”
    â€œNo—not yet. He went down to preach in the market place.”
    Paul Miller had left the market place where he had gone to preach the saving grace of Jesus, for the people were busy and indifferent. On the way home he met Dr. Lane, returning from his Wednesday afternoon catechism class in the church. Ordinarily the tall handsome missionary, settled comfortably in a riksha, would have passed the short figure plodding through the dust with no more than a friendly, though somewhat embarrassed, nod. Today, however, he stopped the riksha. “Miller, may I have a word with you?”
    â€œCertainly, Brother Lane.”
    Henry Lane winced at the title. Brother he was, of course, spiritually, to all mankind,