Nothing calmed her like her mother's voice; so, after trying various other methods, Margaret sang to her in a low, sweet undertone some of the children's hymns she had taught her at different times.
It was long, long since Margaret had lifted her voice in song of any kind, and tears once or twice almost choked her utterance as the "Sweet Story of Old" and "Gentle Jesus" came falteringly from her pale lips.
She had sung them at her child's cradle with all the proud joy of a young mother happy and beloved. Now all was changed—she and her child were alone in the wide world. But the sweet old words were suggestive. As she sang the spirit of the lonely woman grew calmer and her voice faltered less.
Then—in that fair long ago—she had loved the words for their music, their sweet, pleasant harmony; now she loved them for themselves, for the healing rest they seemed to bring to her. Like the cool touch of a loving mother on the fevered brow of a sick little one were the words of these child-utterances to Margaret that evening. She grew calmer and her daughter slept.
[CHAPTER XV.]
A DREAM OF THE SEA.
We dream what is
About to happen to us.
The language in which Margaret condemned Jane Rodgers's conduct to her daughter was not very bitter, but it was effective. She would listen to no excuses, no recapitulation of the grievous faults of children in general, and of Miss Laura (Jane was very respectful when addressing her mother) in particular—of the urgent necessity for some kind of discipline. All this she set aside with a quiet dignity that severely impressed Jane.
"No one but myself," she said, "shall have power to correct my child. If you cannot make up your mind to promise never to attempt anything of the kind for the future, I will leave your house to-morrow, and you know very well that under the circumstances I might refuse even a month's notice."