Reginald looked up at him with envious eyes.  There was such a freshness about this strong young life, as if every moment were a separate joy.

“I wish I was dead!” he answered moodily.

“Don’t dare to wish that!” said John quickly, “until you have made the most of your life.”

“The most of my life!” echoed Reginald contemptuously.  “That’s well put, John, I must say!  What is my life worth to me now?  You see what my father thinks of it.  A useless log, as valuable as a piece of waste paper.  I believe it would have pleased him better if I had been killed outright.  He wouldn’t have had the humiliation of it always before his eyes.  If it had been any sort of a decent accident, I believe I could bear it better, but to be knocked over in a football match, like the precious duffer that I am—­bah!”

The concentrated bitterness of the last words made John’s heart ache.  “Looking backward, Rege,” he said quietly, “will never make a man of you.  It is only a waste of time and vital tissue.  But there are lots of noble lives in spite of limitations.  Paul had his thorn in the flesh, you know, and Milton his blindness.  Difficulties are a spur to the best that is in us.”

“Difficulties, John.  You never look at them, do you?”

John laughed.  “It is not worth while except to see how to surmount them.”

“I wish you could be idle just for an hour,” said Reginald peevishly, “you make me nervous.”

John took another stitch in the halter he was mending.  “Old Father Time’s spoiling tooth is never still, Rege.  I have to work to keep pace with it.”

“I should think you would need a month of loafing to made up for the sleep you have lost.  You’re ahead of Napoleon, John, for he only kept one eye open, but I’ve never been able to catch you napping once.  How have you stood it, man?”

“Forty winks is a fair allowance sometimes, Rege.”

Reginald groaned.  “Your pluck is worth a king’s ransom, John.  I wish I had it.”

John began to whistle softly as he drew his waxed ends in and out.

“I declare, John, I can’t fathom you!” and Reginald moved impatiently upon his couch.  “You are invulnerable as Achilles.  I never saw a fellow get so much comfort out of everything as you do, and yet your life is a steady grind.  What does it all mean?”

“It means,” said John softly, “that I am a Christ’s man, and he has lifted me above the power of circumstances.  Jesus is centre and circumference with me now, Rege.

“You were talking yesterday about some men wanting the earth.  I own the earth, because it belongs to my Father,—­the best part of it, you know,—­there is a truer giving than by title deeds to material acres—­and the world has grown very beautiful since my Father made me heir of all things through his Son.  The birds’ songs have a new note in them, and the sunlight is brighter, and there is a different blue in the sky.  I’m monarch of all I survey because I get the good out of everything,—­mere earthly possession doesn’t amount to much, a man has to leave the finest estates behind him,—­but I get the concentrated sweetness of it all wherever I am.  It is God’s world, you know, and he is my Father.”