Cromwell's wife was seated at the spinet which occupied one corner of the room, and either side of her stood one of her younger daughters, singing. The lady and the children were all dressed in a brown colour, and the purity of their fair-complexioned faces and the delicacy of their soft and waving gold-brown hair was heightened by their collars and caps of white cambric enriched with exquisite needlework.
At the Lieutenant-General's entrance they paused, and Elisabeth Cromwell was about to rise, but he bade them continue and crossed to the fireplace, where he stood quietly, with his head hanging on his breast.
With a blush for the presence of their father at their simple performance, the two little girls began again; the fresh voices, sharply pure and sweetly tremulous, rose clearly and echoed clearly in the high-ceiled chamber, accompanied by the faint, half-muffled notes of the spinet.
"Ye Holy Angels bright,
Who wait at God's right hand,
Or through the realms of light
Fly at your Lord's command.
Assist our song,
Or else the theme
Too high doth seem
For mortal tongue."
The little singers had forgotten the embarrassment of an audience; their eyes sparkled, their little round mouths strained open in a rapture.
Elisabeth Cromwell, as her fingers touched the keys to the simple melody, looked across the spinet to her husband.
"Ye blessed souls at rest,
Who ran this earthly race,
And now from sin released,
Behold the Saviour's face.
His praises sound
As in His light
With sweet delight
Ye do abound."
The mother's head bent a little; she dropped her eyes. She was thinking of Robert and Oliver, and wondering if they were leaning from heaven to listen to this song—"blessed souls at rest." Ah, well!
"Ye saints, who toil below,
Adore your Heavenly King,
And onward as ye go
Some joyful anthem sing.
Take what He gives
And praise Him still
Through good and ill,
Who ever lives!"
The young voices gathered greater fervency on the next lines—