“You will be permitted to meet your father at the chapel service to-night.”
“Oh, but—!” and Miriamne bowed her head and waved her hand as if to repel some unpleasant spectacle.
“Be not perturbed, sister. Let me explain: You came hither to seek your demented parent, hoping that love would find a way to compass his healing. The purpose and effort were alike noble and wise. You lost heart because the results were slow to appear; but the good seed was sown, and now for the fruit.”
“Has my father recovered?”
“He has improved, and to-night we’ll sit quietly while we apply the balm of Gilead.”
“Now am I in a mystery.”
“Miriamne’s ministries have touched a responsive chord in Sir Charleroy’s heart and fitted him to attend our mind-cure services. Love is the surest remedy for a mind gone down under the ruins of the crushed heart. Sir Charleroy calls his daughter ‘Naaman’s little maid,’ and but yesterday said: ‘Ah, she’ll take me to healing Jordan yet!’”
“Blessed be God,” devoutly exclaimed the maiden, glancing heavenward.
“To which I say ‘amen,’ assured that great things will come through our ‘Birth of Peace.’”
“And what is that, pray?”