Down look they on us from their regal glory,
Or, by Divine permit, come hov’ring near;
Fain would they tell us all the golden story
Of their high bliss our mournful hearts to cheer.
Nor are they voiceless—spiritual whispers
In sweetly silent music thrill the breast;
Then soul communes with soul, exchanges Mizpahs,
And their soft saint-song bids us, “Be at rest!”
“Father,” said Lucy, as the pleasant meal proceeded, “What has become of Master Philip? Before I went to school he used to come riding up to the forge on his little white pony nearly every day. You and he were great friends, I remember, and I have never seen him since I came back.”
“Why, little lassie,” said Nathan, “you and he were quite as good friends as we were. Indeed, I’m pretty sure that his visits were quite as much for your sake as mine. At any rate, Master Philip would never turn his pony’s head towards Waverdale Park until he had seen ‘his little sweetheart,’ as he called you, and I’m bound to say, Miss Lucy, that you were quite as well pleased to see his handsome face and to hear the ring of his merry voice as ever I was—though I did not mean to make you blush by saying so.”