“No; I can not do that.”
“There is no ‘can’ in it. It is my will, Margaret, that thou go. Go at once, and take thy son with thee. The kind deed delayed is worth very little. To-day that is thy work, and we will not read or write. As for me, I will loose my boat, and I will sail about the bay, and round by the Troll Rock, and I will think of these things only.”
For a few minutes Margaret stood watching him drift with the tide, his boat rocking gently, and the fresh wind blowing his long white hair, and carrying far out to sea the solemnly joyful notes to which he was singing his morning psalm.
“Bless, O my soul, the Lord thy God
and not forgetful be
Of all his gracious benefits
he hath bestowed on thee.
Such pity as a father hath
unto his children dear,