Richard heard and admired: he thought that as she had perceived there was something better than saying prayers, she would pray no more!
“Go on; go on,” she said. “But if you like to stop, I shan't mind. I have no fear now. It's all going right, and must soon come all right!”
“O sleep! It is a gentle thing,”
said Richard, going on.
“There it is!” she interrupted. “I knew it was all coming right! He can sleep now!”
“O sleep! It is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle deep from Heaven,
That slid into my soul.”
Some one was in the room, the door of which had been open all the time. The sky was so cloudy, and the twilight so far advanced, that neither of them, Barbara absorbed in the poem and Richard in the last of his day's work, had heard any one enter.
“Why don't you ring for a lamp?” said Lestrange.
“There is no occasion; I have just done,” answered Richard.
“You cannot surely see in this light!” said Arthur, who was short-sighted. “You certainly were not at your work when I came into the room!”