“Perhaps the preacher does not know we are there, Hal, we are so little, you know,” added Cis in an apologetic tone, “and there is a long way between us and the pulpit.”
“Perhaps so,” said Hal absently, for he was wondering if he could put his Star of Love over the pulpit on Christmas Day; it would make a bright light, and perhaps the preacher would remember them then,—and he added aloud, “But if he did remember us, Cis, I expect he’d be cross if we didn’t sit quite still, as I heard him say one day we ought.”
“I suppose it is such a long time since he was a little child, that he forgets how hard it is,” said little Cis.
But by this time they had got out of the thickest part of the bush, and were walking along a little winding path near a precipice. On the upper side was a bank from which dainty ferns hung their graceful fronds, and beneath them, on the moss, the tiny lamps of myriad glow-worms shone like specks of fire. As the children stopped to gaze, they heard the glow-worms singing:—
“Children of the earth are we,
Small and brown and ill to see;
But we can make our lamps at night
In dreary places show their light.
Travellers oft might miss the way,