"Yes, Ann—no music this side of heaven will ever be so sweet to me as your singin'."
"Dear old goose," she laughed. "Then hand me my hymn-book."
She turned the pages slowly. "I have sung all the old ones and found some nice new ones. Here is a new song—a happy song:
What a mercy is this!
What a heaven of bliss!
How unspeakably happy am I,
Gathered into the fold—"
The song was interrupted by a slight cough which ended in a choking spell. She rested a moment.
"Do you like it, Abraham?"
"Yes, but that's not my song."
"You want the pilgrim song?"
"Yes, my little pilgrim, that is mine. Can you sing it?"
"Yes, indeed, and I want to":