And then again.
“Of God Incarnate and the Virgin’s Son.”
Who could it be? Some lone wanderer surely that had stolen a march on church and chapel alike.
“It’s happen ’Siah,” hazarded Martha. No ’Siah had a voice like a frog.
“It’s th’ sexton,” said my father.
Now the sexton was sixty years old, with a piping treble, and the voice of our midnight visitor was rounded, full and mellow.
I looked to Mary for a hazard, for no thought of who it could be came to my mind, and I was not best pleased that anyone should outstrip the choirs. And as I looked the voice without took up another strain.
“Then to the watchful shepherds it was told
Who heard the Angelic herald’s voice ‘Behold.’”
And Mary’s face was a sight to see. She had dropped her knitting on her lap, and her hands were crossed over the work, and her face was as though the morning sun shone on it, and a soft smile was on her parted lips, a look half–glad, half sorry, was in her eyes and her bosom seemed to flutter.