The children flushed a little. They knew when ma disliked their way of talking. She had her own particular fashion of correcting them.
“You read, Azalea,” said Jim, sinking into a chair and staring out of the rain-beaten window. “And you’ll have to read good and loud to get ahead of this bellering and roaring.”
And, indeed, the wind shook the cabin, and the rain fluttered down the chimney; the stream that tumbled down the mountain side was fairly shouting and the trees were beating their drenched branches together with a sound like the rushing of great birds. But high above the elemental din, Azalea’s clear voice arose. And peace dwelt within the cabin. It dwelt there while the children set the table for the good dinner that Mrs. McBirney had cooked, and while they devoured that dinner with perfect concentration of purpose. And afterward, when ma had read a psalm to them, and pa had told a story about something that happened to him when he was a boy and the fires were raging over the mountains, they settled down to a quiet game of jack straws on the deal table.
And then, just as they were on the point of being bored again, the storm cleared. Above them the deep blue sky shone through the fleecy whiteness of the clouds, and beneath them torn fragments of cloud swam along like floating islands over the purple valley. The sunset came in rose and gold, and in the east a proud young moon, bright as a happy bride, swam up into the heavens.
The McBirneys, silent and happy, cloaked against the dampness, sat at “Outlook Point” and looked about them at the beautiful world.
“This is as good as church, to my way of thinking,” remarked Thomas McBirney. “If you can’t worship the Almighty when you see a thing like this, then there ain’t no manner of worship in you.”
“What’s that, Thomas? Singing?” asked his wife.
Something sweet and clear troubled the silence, and as the four harkened it swelled.
“Singing!” decided Thomas. “Who can it be?”
They listened.