She stopped outside their door. Margaret was practising her singing, and through the still night air her voice rang out like that of an angel.
"Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God."
The old Hebrew prophetic words fell like dew on Mary's heart. She could not interrupt. She stood listening and "comforted," till the little buzz of conversation again began, and then entered and told her errand.
Both grandfather and grand-daughter rose instantly to fulfil her request.
"He's just tired out, Mary," said old Job. "He'll be a different man to-morrow."
There is no describing the looks and tones that have power over an aching, heavy laden heart; but in an hour or so John Barton was talking away as freely as ever, though all his talk ran, as was natural, on the disappointment of his fond hope, of the forlorn hope of many.
"Ay, London's a fine place," said he, "and finer folk live in it than I ever thought on, or ever heerd tell on except in th' story-books. They are having their good things now, that afterwards they may be tormented."
Still at the old parable of Dives and Lazarus! Does it haunt the minds of the rich as it does those of the poor?
"Do tell us all about London, dear father," asked Mary, who was sitting at her old post by her father's knee.
"How can I tell yo a' about it, when I never seed one-tenth of it. It's as big as six Manchesters, they telled me. One-sixth may be made up o' grand palaces, and three-sixths o' middling kind, and th' rest o' holes o' iniquity and filth, such as Manchester knows nought on, I'm glad to say."