“Say ‘The Vale,’” Jack murmured.
Harry knew what he meant, and repeated a verse or two, in metre, of that beautiful psalm that has given comfort to many a soul in sorrow.
The last verse that Jack could have heard was the fourth:
“Yea, though I walk thro’ death’s dark vale,
Yet will I fear none ill,
For Thou art with me; and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still.”
There were just a few long-drawn sobs at intervals, then Harry sat watching to see if he would sigh again.
But a minute passed, and Jack sighed no more. Harry gently closed the eyes.
Then he sat for a time, biting his lip till it almost bled; but all to no purpose, his sorrow would find vent.
And knowing all we do, can we wonder at Harry’s grief?
Can we wonder that he bent over that faithful Jack, and that the scalding tears fell from his eyes upon the poor dead face?