“Beyond the shining and the shading,
Beyond the hoping and the dreading, I shall be soon.”
The strong, tender arms of the tall man gently lowered the white form under the cruel water; he staggered a moment in the swift stream, recovered himself, raised her, white as death, and the voices of the wailing tune came:
“Love, rest, and home
Sweet hope! Lord, tarry not, but come!”
And the tall man, as he struggled to the shore with his almost insensible burden, could be heard above the other voices and the wind and the rush of the waters:
“Lord, tarry not, but come!”
The girl was hurried into the carriage, and the group quickly dispersed. “Well, I'll be—” The tender-hearted little wife of the rough man in the crowd who began that sentence did not permit him to finish it. “That'll be a case for a doctor right away,” remarked a well-known practitioner who had been looking on.
Margaret and Mr. Lyon walked home in silence. “I can't talk about it,” she said. “It's such a pitiful world.”