“The last verse once more,” said someone:
“Now all your sorrows He doth heal,
Your sins He takes away;
For Jesus Christ, your Savior,
Was born on Christmas day.”
It was nearly morning when, home at last, in her little white eider down gown, Dorothy sat in Jeanie’s lap—Jeanie, whose arms had ached for her.
Warm and happy, she told them how she had stopped to play with Rings, till, bewildered by the snow, she had run in the wrong direction, felt water dashing over her feet, and then she had climbed into a boat and Rings jumped in after her; the next moment a big wave had carried them away into the blinding storm.
“It was cold and dark, and I began to be frightened,” she said. “I remembered, ‘Thou shalt not be afraid,’ and the things father dear and Jeanie had told me. So I talked to God; I told Him this was a pretty big trouble to face, and asked Him to take care of me, and, of course, He did. I began to think of that song—‘Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep’:
‘Secure I rest from all alarm,