The blind old poet would have said that the winds carried the prayer away and scattered it. But no winds can scatter, no waves can drown, the immortal spirit of one true prayer. Unanswered it may be—but scattered and fruitless, not!
Chapter Nineteen.
The School-Bell.
To me the thought of death is terrible,
Having such hold of life; to you it is not
More than the sudden lifting of a latch;
Nought but a step into the open air,
Out of a tent already luminous
With light that shines through its transparent fold.
Longfellow’s Golden Legend.
“I’ve got a good piece of news for you, Master Daubeny,” said the kind old school-nurse.
“What is it? is my mother here?” he said eagerly. “O! let her come and see me.”
She was at the door, and the next moment his arms were round her neck in a long embrace. “Darling, darling mother,” he exclaimed, “now I shall be happy, now that you have come. Nay, you mustn’t cry, mother,” he said, as he felt one of her fast flowing tears upon his forehead; “you’ve come to help me in bearing up.”
“Dearest Johnny,” she said, “I trust yet that God will spare the widow’s only son; He Who raised the son of the widow of Nain will pity us.”