For a few seconds they stood in silence, then Hugh Stanmore said quietly, "One can understand Charles Kingsley's dying words on such a night, Mr. Faversham."
"What did he say?" asked Dick.
"'How beautiful God must be,'" quoted Hugh Stanmore.
Just then a bird burst forth into song—rich-noted, mellow, triumphant.
"A nightingale!" cried the girl. "Look, Granddad, it is over on that tree." She went down the drive under the long avenue of trees as she spoke, leaving Hugh Stanmore and Dick together.
"They can't be far away on such a night as this," murmured the old man.
"Who can't be far away?"
"The angels. The heavens are full of them. Ah, if we could only see!"
"Do you believe in angels?"
"Do I believe in them? How can I help believing? It is nearly nineteen years ago since my boy and his wife died. But they didn't leave me altogether. They come to me."