“SAY something to me, Joan.”
George Rutherford was in his study again—just able to creep down there once a day, for a few hours on the sofa. He did not rally from this attack, as from former attacks.
It was Sunday afternoon, and Joan sat by his side, a book open on her knee. She had not read much however.
“What shall I say, father dear?”
“Anything you like, my Joan.”
A pause followed. Joan did not seem able to think readily of “anything.”
“Say—‘There shall be no more death.’ I have had those words sounding in my mind to-day.”
“But that is so long, father. I don’t think your head will bear it all,” pleaded Joan, shrinking from the task. She had learnt the piece he referred to, for the purpose of giving him pleasure, in earlier and brighter days.
“A few verses then, my dear.”
Joan would not refuse. She began in a low, tremulous voice:—