"No; wait till to-morrow, you great baby. Go away now, and do your best to be good."
"Alla righta; if you give to me one little song."
"Truly?"
"Truly, Anita mia. I desire indeed, this hour, the mandolin. But no matter: sing. All is quiet: see! it can begin."
Then the girl's thin bird-like voice soared alone, not in any expected love-lyric of the seaport streets, but in a Christian folk-song of artless beauty.
"All in the April evening,
April airs were abroad;
The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road.
"The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road:
All in the April evening
I thought on the Lamb of God.
"The lambs were weary, and crying
With a weak human cry:
I thought on the Lamb of God
Going meekly to die.
"Up in the blue, blue mountains,
Dewy pastures are sweet,
With rest for the little bodies,
And rest for the little feet.
"But for the Lamb of God,
Up on the hill-top green,
Only a Cross of shame,
Two stark crosses between!
"All in the April evening,
April airs were abroad;
I saw the sheep with their lambs:
I thought on the Lamb of God."[1]
There was a pause after. Then Openshaw sighed. He knew they were in each other's arms, the morning heaven blessing them; but with him it was spiritual darkness, and bitter evenfall. A boat passed below, the oarsmen curious; and the young loiterers on the old wharf stood apart.
"My angel, my sainta!"
"Hush! It is twelve already; I must be off."