Whatever Dr. Spencer might have suffered, he was far too polite to scold, and a glance between the two physicians ended in a merry twinkle of his bright eyes.
“This way,” he said; “we are all ready.”
“But where’s my little Daisy?” said Dr. May.
“You’ll see her in a minute. She is as good as gold.”
He drew them on up the bank—people making way for them—till he had stationed them among the others of their own party, beside the deep trench that traced the foundation, around a space that seemed far too small.
Nearly at the same moment began the soft clear sound of chanting wafted upon the wind, then dying away—carried off by some eddying breeze, then clear, and coming nearer and nearer.
I will not suffer mine eyes to sleep,
Nor mine eye-lids to slumber:
Neither the temples of my head to take any rest;
Until I find out a place for the temple of the Lord:
An habitation for the mighty God of Jacob.
Few, who knew the history of Cocksmoor, could help glancing towards the slight girl, who stood, with bent head, her hand clasped over little Aubrey’s; while, all that was not prayer and thanksgiving in her mind, was applying the words to him, whose head rested in the Pacific isle, while, in the place which he had chosen, was laid the foundation of the temple that he had given unto the Lord.
There came forth the procession: the minster choristers, Dr. Spencer as architect, and, in her white dress, little Gertrude, led between Harry and Hector, Margaret’s special choice for the occasion, and followed by the Stoneborough clergy.
Let thy priests be clothed with righteousness.