The third letter which Dr. Antony had brought us was from Job Forster. I went with Dr. Antony to take it to Rachel. In it Job spoke much of Roger's courage and goodness, in a way it made my heart beat quick to hear. "Master Roger fights like a lion-like man of Judah," wrote Job, "and commands like one of the chief princes. And at other times he can tend a wounded man, friend or foe, or speak good words to the dying, most as tender, Rachel, as thee." Job's letter was by no means doubtful or desponding. He had the advantage of those in the ranks. He saw only the rank and the step immediately before him, and heard not the discussions of the commanders but only the word of command. "I think," he concluded, "we have come about to 1 Sam. xxii. 14. Some time back we were in 1 Sam. xxii. 1, in cave Adullam: 'Every one that was in debt, and every one that was discontented, gathered themselves unto them,' and a sorry troop they were. But that is over. The General saith himself: 'I have a lovely company; honest, sober Christians; you would respect them did you know them.' And respect us they do; leastways the enemy. And now David (that is, General Cromwell) is in Keilah. And they inquired of the Lord and the Lord said, 'They will deliver thee up.' _But God delivered him not_. The rest has to come in its season." Job wrote also of "the young gentleman the chirurgeon." "Of as good a courage as the best," quoth Job. "For I hold it harder to stand about among the whizzing bullets, succouring or removing the wounded than to fight. It is always harder to stand fire than to charge. And it is harder to spend days and nights tending poor groaning suffering men than to suffer yourself. That is, if you have got a heart. Which that doctor hath. But every man hath his calling. And Dr. Antony hath his. Straight from headquarters, as I deem." It was curious that what struck me first in those words of Job's was his calling Dr. Antony "young." It set me wondering what his age might be; and as we walked home together I glanced at him to see. I had always thought of him as my Father's friend, and therefore of another generation. Besides there was the doctor's cap, and a physician is always, _ex officio_, an elder. But when I came to consider his face, it had certainly nothing of old age in it. His carriage was erect and easy; his hair, raven-black, had not a streak of gray; his eyes, dark as they were, had fire enough in them. These researches scarce took me a moment, but his eyes met mine, and it seemed as if he half guessed what I was thinking of, for he said,-- "You wondered at Job's talking of the courage of a chirurgeon." "Not at all," said I, somewhat confused. "I was only thinking how it was you were always our Father's friend instead of ours." "Was I not yours?" he said, half smiling. "Oh, yes, of course," I said, "every one's." "Every one's, Mistress Olive," he said inquiringly, "only, not yours?"