"I'll see it soon,—as plain as I see yours," said Job.
"Would you like me to pray with you?"
"Sure an' I would, sir, if 'tain't troublin' you,—not as that's likely," he added. "I'm not feared. But if 'tis all the same to you, sir, I'd rather have the prayers I knows, an' not the Visitation of the Sick, nor no new one. My head's a bit weak, an' I'll follow the old words easiest."
So the old-grand sweet words, offered up by tens of thousands before him through hundreds of years past, now sounded reverently in Leveson's deep voice. They seemed to fill the little garret with an atmosphere of peace, and to bring a ray of measureless trust upon Job's face, as he lay again with his clasped hands.
"Aye, that be it," he said at the close in an undertone. "Strayed an' wanderin',—leavin' undone things I ought to ha' done, an' doin' things I ought to ha' left undone,—a poor miserable offender first to last. But He 've forgiven me,—blessed be His Name."
Then Job was quiet awhile,—as if asleep. Presently looking up, he said, "He 've been a good Master,—a good Master,—lovin' right to the end."
"And how in the day of trouble, and failure, and almost starvation?" asked Leveson. "Had He forsaken you then? Did your faith stand out then?"
"Sure an' if it didn't, 'twas I that failed, an' not He. Trust Him!—Aye, don't I? Little Ailie—"
She came closer, sobbing, and he put his hand over hers.
"Don't ye ever forget that. Trust Him whatever He do to ye—whatever. Don't ye ever question an' doubt. His dealings with ye are all love, an' faithfulness, an' tenderness, from beginning to end. Maybe He'll let ye wander alone, and be half-starved again as He's done afore. It's all love, I tell ye. Just cling to Him, an' He'll be with ye through all. He'll never leave ye. He's never left me,—an' never will."