David’s eyes turned slowly towards Nat Wills, and softened into a look of great love.
“Nat,” he said faintly,—“Nat!”
“I’ll go just where you likes,” said the boy, eagerly looking up.
“Then you’ll go to Thorpe—to Mr Salter—Mr Miles will, maybe, help you—and you’ll tell. There’s nothing like telling before it’s too late.” His voice had grown stronger, his eye brightened.
“Do you know that it was Mr Miles who saved your life?” said Mr Bennett, who had been a good deal shocked by what he heard.
But David was still looking at the boy.
“The mist is lifting from the water,” he said slowly. “Does Faith see it?—Faith told me she would—look, look!”
“He is wandering,” said the doctor, softly.
What does the soul see when the cords are loosened for a moment, and it goes where our feeble pity follows, not knowing what we say? Do the mists lift indeed, and does the glory of the Day Dawn shine in its nearness? Whatever David may have beheld, something of its wonder touched his face, and brightened it with an intense joy, a joy which rested, and at which by and by they looked reverently as at something which had done with earth and its sin forever.