“Especially in case of war, and if you turn out a good and capable commander,” returned Hunt, tossing up a ball and catching it as it fell.  “I sometimes think I’d like nothing better; a fellow would have a chance to distinguish himself, such as he could never hope for in time of peace.”

“Yes; and if such a thing should happen I hope it will be when I’m ready to take part in the defence of my country,” said Max, his cheek flushing and his eyes kindling, “but war is an awful thing considering all the killing and maiming, to say nothing of the destruction of property; and I hope our country will never be engaged in another.  But excuse me,” he added, opening his Bible, “I see we have scarcely fifteen minutes now before taps will sound.”

At that Hunt moved away to his own side of the room, from whence he watched Max furtively, a mocking smile on his lips.

Max was uncomfortably conscious of it, but tried to ignore it and give his thoughts to what he was reading.  Presently, closing his book he knelt and silently offered up his evening prayer, asking forgiveness of all his sins, strength to resist temptation, and never be afraid or ashamed to own himself a follower of Jesus, his loving disciple, his servant, whose greatest desire was to know and do the Master’s will; and very earnestly he prayed that no evil might befall his dearly loved and honored father, his sisters or brother, Mamma Vi, or any of those he loved; that they might be taken safely through all their journeying, and he permitted to see them all again when the right time should come; and having committed both them and himself to the watchful care of his Heavenly Father, he rose from his knees and began his preparations for bed.

“Well, sonny, I hope you will sleep soundly and well after saying your prayers like the goodest of little boys,” sneered Hunt.

“I shall sleep none the worse,” returned Max pleasantly.

“I’ll bet not a bit better than I shall without going through any such baby-like performance.”

“God is very good and often takes care of those who don’t ask him to,” said Max; “but I don’t think they have any right to expect it; also I am sure I should be shamefully ungrateful if I were to lie down for my night’s rest without a word of thanks to him for his protecting care over me and mine through the day that is just past.  As to its being a baby-like performance, it is one in which some of the greatest, as well as best men, have indulged.  Washington was a man of prayer.  So was General Daniel Morgan—­that grand revolutionary officer who whipped Tarleton so completely at the battle of the Cowpens.  There was Macdonough also, who gained that splendid victory over the British on Lake Champlain in the war of 1812-14.  Have you forgotten that just before the fight began, after he had put springs on his cables, had the decks cleared, and everything was ready for action, with his officers and men around him, he knelt down near one of his heaviest guns and in a few words asked God to help him in the coming struggle?  He might well do that, because, as you know of course, we were in the right, fighting against oppression and wrongs fit to rouse the indignation of the most patient and forbearing of mortals.”