"See there now!" the woman exclaimed. "Won't my Amy have a grand time playing with the little lady and gentleman!"
The child seemed pleased. She laid one little wasted arm about her mother's neck in a loving way, and stretched out the other to us. I almost thought that she tried to speak. Then she settled back again, and her eyes gazed off far beyond us, through the roof of the mean house, higher and higher, perhaps at greater joys and glories that were to be hers forever.
The woman caught the little form to her quickly.
"Sing something else!" she cried, wildly. "Sing—"
She hesitated a moment, rocking herself to and fro on the edge of the bed with the child in her arms.
"Couldn't you sing a hymn?" she whispered. "Couldn't you, dears?"
Dick and I knew lots and lots of hymns. We always learned them on Sundays to please our grandmother. We stood closer together, and sang with full hearts, our voices rising up, clearly, shrilly, with childish emphasis:
"There's a Home for little children,
Above the bright blue sky,
Where Jesus reigns in glory,
A Home of peace and joy;
No home on earth is like it,
Nor can with it compare,
For everyone is happy,
Nor can be happier there."