Ora pro nobis; ’tis night far o’er the sea.”
The Archbishop listened attentively, and with an evident pleasure that must have been wholly disassociated from any musical sense. Then his smile deepened. “Would you like me to sing for you?” he said.
“Oh, yes, if you please,” we shrilled; and Madame Bouron gave us a warning glance. “Be very still, children,” she admonished. “His Grace is going to sing.”
His Grace settled himself comfortably in the boat. His amused glance travelled over our expectant faces, and sought as usual the little girls, now close to the water’s edge. Then he cleared his throat, and, as I am a Christian gentlewoman, and a veracious chronicler, this is the song he sang:—
“In King Arthur’s reign, a merry reign,
Three children were sent from their homes,
Were sent from their homes, were sent from their homes,
And they never went back again.
“The first, he was a miller,
The second, he was a weaver,