The wild, terrified voice died with a rattling sound in his throat.
“Father, father, speak to me! It is I, George!”
Safford, in his agony, fell upon his knees. During the moment that followed there was profound silence; then Simlin opened his eyes, and said, gently,—
“George! the little George!” A radiant light rested upon his thin face. He raised his trembling hands, and passed them unsteadily over the man’s head. “Yer hair is soft an’ black as hern, George. Hist! Don’t ye hear her singin’?—Why, Hetty, I’m a-comin’, Hetty!—I’m a-comin’——”
THE ANTHEM OF JUDEA.
I.
At the foot of the hill stood a low, old-fashioned frame house, with a picket-fence round the yard, which ran down to a small stream that sometimes flowed along slowly, and sometimes with a great rush, and sometimes slept tranquilly beneath a sheeting of ice. Nearly a mile off, smooth and level, with pleasant streets, and a church whose spire shone in the sunlight long after the evening shade had crept over the ground, was the village of Pickaway, the gem of Paint Valley.