Her Angel.
Anna F. Burnham.
Margery cowered and crouched in the door of the beautiful porch.
There were beautiful people in there, and they all belonged to the church.
But Margery waited without; she did not belong anywhere
Except in the dear Lord’s bosom, who taketh the children there.
And through the open doorway came floating a lovely sound;
She shut her eyes and imagined how the angels stood around
With their harps like St. Cecilia’s in the picture on the wall—
Ah, Margery did not doubt that so looked the singers all.
“Suffer the little children!” sang a heavenly voice somewhere,
Or the soul of a voice that was winging away in the upper air;
“Let the children come to me!” sang the angel in her place,
And Margery, listening, stood, with upturned eyes and face.
“Let them come! let them come to me!” And up the aisle she sped
With eyes that sought for the Voice, to follow where it led.
She did not say to herself: “I’m coming! Wait for me!”
But it shone in her face, and it leaped in her eyes, dear Margery!
Up the stair to the singer she ran, she touched the hem of her dress.
But the choir were bending their heads, the preacher had risen to bless
The reverent throng, and alas! bewildered Margery,
The Voice has ceased, and the singers have turned their eyes on thee.
They look with surprise at her feet, and again at her ragged gown,
And one by one they pass with a careless smile or a frown;
But the sweetest face bent near, and—“I came,” said Margery,
“For I thought ’twas an angel sang, ‘Let the children come to me!’”
With a tender sigh the singer took the child upon her knee;
“I sang the words for the dear Lord Christ, my Margery,
And so, for the dear Lord Christ, I take thee home with me!”
—“It was an angel sang!” sobs little Margery.