"There iss a book of himes (hymns) here, and maybe you will be liking one of them."
And Lachlan produced the little book Flora got in that London church when the preacher told her she was missed.
"We will not sing hymns, father, for I am remembering that you hef a conscience against hymns, and I did not know that you had that book."
"My conscience wass sometimes better than the Bible, Flora, and if God will be sending a hime to bind up your heart when it wass broken, it iss your father that will be wanting to sing that hime.
"It iss here," continued Lachlan in triumph, "for I hef often been reading that hime, and I am not seeing much wrong in it."
"But each hymn hass got its own tune, father, and you will not know the way that it goes, and the doctor will not be wishing me to sing."
"You are a good girl, Flora, but you are not so clever as your father, oh no, for I hef been trying that hime on the hill, and it will sing beautiful to a Psalm tune. You will lie still and hear."
Then Lachlan lifted up his voice in "French,"
"There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins,
And sinners plunged beneath that flood
Lose all their guilty stains."
The singing was fairly good, with a whisper from Flora, till they came to that verse: