Shall grief’s low moan be never heard again,
No pang of suffering into utterance start?”
“Shall we no longer, when spring flowers have birth,
Go forth, with spirits bowed, in deep dejection,
And in the cold embraces of the earth
Lay the loved object of our best affection?”
Joan struggled on so far, and then came to a complete pause. George laid his hand on hers.
“My poor Joan! It was too much to ask of you. I did not think—no, don’t say any more.”
“Oh, yes, I’m going on,” said Joan resolutely. “It’s no use to be foolish;” and she started huskily with a later verse:—
“It is the Saviour’s sweet yet solemn voice—