The company let Job talk in this way a good while. It was refreshing to hear him; and he delighted to be garrulous. There was not a happier heart present than his; and its simple philosophy and genial humor flowed out and mingled in such a sunny, babbling brook, that no one desired it should be checked.
But at length Job himself refused to talk any more.
"I'm pumped dry," said he. "If you want anything more from me, Father Brighthopes will have to prime me. I haven't another joke that isn't musty; and now, I say, we'll have a regular-built speech from the old patriarch. Silence!" cried Job, tapping his wooden leg; "attention, every one! Father Brighthopes, we wait to hear from you."
The old clergyman, having sat down upon the grass, was so tangled up in the children, who clung to his neck and arms, that he could not arise to respond.
"Georgie," said Mrs. Royden, in a tone of gentle reproach, "you shouldn't lie upon Father Brighthopes. Get down, Willie. Lizzie, you are too big to be hanging around his neck."
"She is crowning him with a wreath of flowers," murmured Hepsy, who was comfortably seated in the midst of the group.
The poor girl's health was much improved; there was a faint flush on her cheeks; but, although in good spirits, she had scarcely spoken before since dinner, having been absorbed in weaving the wreath for the old man's venerable and beloved head.
At length he was crowned, the children released him, and he got up, radiant and beautiful, with his young and hopeful spirit shining through his glorious old face.
We wish there had been a reporter on the spot. That speech would well be worth preserving, word for word. But we are able to give only a meager outline of it, very imperfect, and without regard to the order in which the sentiments—like so many waves of liquid light—rippled upon the hearts of his hearers.