After prayers, preparations for retiring were commenced.
But Barclay begged leave to sit up another halfhour beside his mother, who was sewing. Leave was granted, and, of course, auburn-haired Phœbe sat up too. And so did Muffie the big tabby-cat, and the girl’s special favourite.
“Now tell us a story, mother.”
Mother did as she was told.
Mrs. Stuart was in the habit of composing little ditties, music and words, and of these Phœbe was very fond indeed.
Strange, that while the boy always begged for a story in the long forenights of winter and spring, the girl always preferred a song. But this mother had seen much grief in her time, and her songs were sad.
Now I will just give one verse of a song of her own she sang to-night at Phœbe’s request:
THE DYING BOY TO HIS MOTHER
“O mother dear, sit down by me,
And let me hold your hand,
And sing me songs, and tell me tales
Of a far-off happy land.
For when you tell me tales like these,
And sing so sweet and clear,
A seraph’s voice, it seems to me,
Falls on my listening ear.”
. . . . . .
It was sweet spring-time, and in no part of Merrie England is spring more delightfully bracing than on the shores of sunny Devon. Perhaps few of the wild birds ever cared to visit Fisherton itself, but the bonnie woods and the bushes of bright orange-blossoming furze all around Wildwood Cottage, Barclay’s home, were alive with the song of birds when the boy awoke early next day. He paused not to listen however, but snatching up his towel he went off at a swinging trot—this boy hardly ever took time to walk—to the rocks.