“‘The Lord our God is merciful,
And He is gracious,
Long-suffering, and slow to wrath,
In mercy plenteous.’
“Ay is He! as we ken well this day. And again:—
“‘Such pity as a father hath
Unto his children dear,
Like pity shows the Lord to such
As worship Him in fear.’
“‘Such pity as a father hath.’ We ken well what that means, Dawvid; a father’s pity; such pity and love as we felt for our Davie, when he lay tossing in his bed, poor laddie. And—as we felt for—him that’s gone—”
She could say no more at the moment, even if it would have been wise to do so. But by and by she rose and came toward him, and standing half behind him, laying her soft, wrinkled old hand on his grey head, she said softly:
“If I could but hear you say that you forgive—Jacob Holt!”
Then there was a long silence in which she did not move.
“Because—I have been thinking that the Lord let our laddie do that—good turn for His—to put us in mind—” Again she paused. “And I would fain hear you say it, for His sake who has loved us, and forgiven so much to us.”
“I wish him no ill. I wouldna hurt a hair of his head. I leave him in God’s hands.”
He spoke huskily, with long pauses between the sentences. Whether he would have said more or not she could not tell. There was no time for more, for the bairns came in with their mother from the Sunday-school, and quiet was at an end for the moment.