"She is in the parlor. I hear her singing. Let us go to her."
At the parlor door they stood a minute and listened to the music. It was strong and clear, and her voice held both the sorrow and the hope that was in her heart:
"My heart is dashed with cares and fears,
My song comes fluttering and is gone,
But high above this home of tears
Eternal Joy sings on—sings on!"
The last strain was a triumphant one, and to its joy they entered. Then Theodora's face was transfigured, she came swiftly towards them, and Mr. Newton laid her hand in Robert's hand, and so left them. And into the love and wonder and thanksgiving of that conversation we cannot enter; no, not even with the sweetest and clearest imagination.
In a couple of hours David came, and Robert joined his father and brother, and Theodora went to assist her mother in preparing the evening meal. She found her standing by an open window, wringing her thin, small hands, and silently weeping.
"Mother, mother!" cried Theodora, clasping her in her strong arms; "why are you weeping?"
"It is that man here again," Mrs. Newton faltered. "I thought that trouble was over. I can bear no more of it, dear."
"He will never give you another moment's grief, dear mother. He is totally changed. He has had an experience; he has been what we call—converted—mother."
"Do you believe that?"
"With all my soul! He has given up everything that made sin and trouble."