“There,” whispered the sick man, and rested with a peaceful look in all his face. “It—doesn’t mean wisdom in general, Doctor,—such as Solomon asked for.”
“Doesn’t it?” said the other, meekly.
“No. It means the wisdom necessary to let—patience—have her perf— I was a long time—getting any where near that.
“Doctor—do you remember how fond—Mary was of singing—all kinds of—little old songs?”
“Of course I do, my dear boy.”
“Did you ever sing—Doctor?”
“O my dear fellow! I never did really sing, and I haven’t uttered a note since—for twenty years.”
“Can’t you sing—ever so softly—just a verse—of—‘I’m a Pilgrim’?”
“I—I—it’s impossible, Richling, old fellow. I don’t know either the words or the tune. I never sing.” He smiled at himself through his tears.
“Well, all right,” whispered Richling. He lay with closed eyes for a moment, and then, as he opened them, breathed faintly through his parted lips the words, spoken, not sung, while his hand feebly beat the imagined cadence:—