"'For I have satisfied the weary soul, and I have replenished every sorrowful soul,'" John Grayson repeated to himself. "Yes, He can do it. These are the miracles He works now, instead of dividing seas and scattering hostile hosts."
Meanwhile Madame Thomassian gathered up the needlework she had come to fetch—coarse garments for some of the many who needed them—and Jack could not help remembering the soft, luxurious life, surrounded by every indulgence wealth could procure, which had once been hers. Now she toiled on from day to day, content with the pittance which was all Miss Celandine had to give to the poor women who were thus employed, and contriving out of that pittance to feed the little waifs she had taken from the street.
Even as she turned and went her way, he heard her softly singing to herself that favourite hymn of the persecuted Armenians:—
"Jesus, I my cross have taken
All to leave and follow Thee;
Destitute, despised, forsaken,
Thou from hence my all shalt be;
"Perish every fond ambition,
All I've sought, or hoped, or known,
Yet how rich is my condition!