Percy had borne up firmly under fear and pain, but this joy was too much for him to bear. Tears, which would not be restrained, overflowed his eyes, and while arrangements were made, he poured out thanksgivings to his God from the very depths of his soul. "'The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in Him, and I am helped: therefore my heart greatly rejoiceth; and with my song wilt I praise Him.'"
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Once again I will pass over an interval of some months, and my reader and I find ourselves once more at Ivy Lodge. A white mantle of snow is over the ground, the air is sharp and keen, and the trees wave their bare branches in the cold blast. But from the house comes the sound of merry voices and of laughter, and the red light from the windows tells of the warm cheering blaze within! We may enter without knocking, and find ourselves unseen spectators of a Christmas feast.
There sits Mrs. Gore at the head of her low, table, her gentle features lighted up with a mother's joy, as she looks down on the lines of young bright faces.
All appears cheerful, contented, and happy, even sickly Mrs. Presgrave wears a Christmas smile. But amongst those present none had a lighter, a more joyous heart than Percy, who, his crutches now laid for ever aside, feels more deeply the blessing of health than those who have never known its loss!
And now there is a general hush in the conversation; the merry faces assume a grave expression, as Mr. Presgrave rises to return thanks. He pauses a moment to look round on the dear circle before him; his eye is moist with feeling, and deep and earnest is the tone of his voice as he utters the words of mingled praise and prayer—"'For these and all Thy other mercies, O Lord! Make us truly thankful! Amen!"
THE END.