"The Bible, of course."
"What story?"
"Not a story this time—the twenty-third Psalm."
The Boy took the worn Bible from the shelf, sat down on the edge of the bed, opened, and began in low tones to read:
"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want——"
His voice choked and he stopped:
"O, Ma, I just can't read that now—why—why did he let this come to you if He's your Shepherd—why—why—why!"
He buried his face in his hands and her slender fingers touched his hair:
"He knows best, my son—read on—the words are sweet to my soul from your lips."
With an effort he opened the Book again: