Sunday was a busy day in the Carter household. Church and Sunday school morning and afternoon filled the daylight hours. All his life he was exceedingly careful to support the influence of the clergy. No word of criticism of sermons ever passed his lips. In every sermon he found something good, and he literally obeyed Herbert’s advice, “Judge not the preacher.” As twilight came on, all assembled in the sitting-room, and exercises of a varied character were begun. Half the Assembly’s Shorter Catechism was recited on one Sunday evening, half on the next; the children were questioned about the services of the day, and even very little ones encouraged to tell what they remembered of the sermon; hymns were repeated in turn, and some of the children were very ambitious not to recite a hymn that had ever been given in the circle before, which involved a good deal of research in hymns, ancient and modern. Bible verses were read or repeated.
Mr. Carter’s solemn and earnest talks as they sat in the quiet room, lighted often only by the open fire, can never be forgotten by his children. They will carry the impression of them to eternity. One of his sons specially remembers a story told on one Sabbath evening of a father who was a godly man, but whose children, while loving and dutiful to him, were utterly uninterested in the claims of religion. In vain he talked with them; they remained careless and unimpressed. One morning he came down to prayers, and took up the Bible, but was so overcome by deep feeling that he could not proceed. The children gathered about him. “What is the matter, father; are you ill?” “No, but I have had a terrible dream, and I cannot get over the horror of it.” “What was it, father?”
