But Margaret was on her knees by his side, sobbing out her grief. She soon was ashamed of herself, however. She must bear up for his sake, who had so much more to bear.
“I cannot sing, dear,” she said; “but we will each have the book open before us, and I will play it through.”
She did so, and then he asked her to read to him.
“The prayer of Jesus for His disciples, Margaret, and His words to them—they are for you and for me, dear, as much as for any one else.”
“Surely.”
And Margaret read the wonderful words to which we all turn, quite naturally, in the supreme moments of our lives, and which comfort us as nothing else can do when death or trouble has forced itself into our houses and will not be turned out. Margaret knew them by heart, and so did Henry Harris, and yet they seemed to have new power and grace on that evening, for the face of Harris was lighted with joy as he listened.
“‘Never man spake like this Man,’” he said. “His Sermon on the Mount is for everyday life, and this, His last address, is for the evening, when the working day is over and rest is near. I have not done all that I might have done; but I am really tired, and shall be as glad of my rest as if I had deserved it. I will both lay me down in peace and sleep, for Thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety. Margaret, what a marvellous conqueror of men is this Jesus Christ!”
“Ah, yes!” said Margaret, with glowing eyes; “and all the world must surely call Him Lord some day.”
“Someday. Yes. I wonder which day it will be, Margaret. I think we could sing now, dear. Let it be, ‘Jesu, lover of my soul.’”
They sang it together—there is no hymn like it for such a time. Harris had a good bass voice and Margaret a sweet mezzo-soprano; and the hymn rose softly but melodiously to heaven. It is a fine prayer, and at the same time a grand ascription of praise. When it was ended, Harris repeated the collect, “Lighten our darkness,” and Margaret the Lord’s. Prayer, and both hearts were calmed.