"My soul, bear thou thy part,
Triumph in God above,
And with a well-tuned heart
Sing thou the songs of love!
Let all thy days
Till life shall end,
Whate'er He send,
Be filled with praise!"
Frances and Mary Cromwell, having ended their hymn, came round from behind the spinet and curtsied to their father.
"A sweet song," he said, "and sweetly sung. Who wrote the words, Mary?"
"Mr. Richard Baxter, sir," she replied; "he taught them to the troop he was chaplain of at Kidderminster—and Henry copied them and brought them home to us."
"Learn Mr. Baxter's hymns," he smiled, "but not his tenets. He is lukewarm and unstable."
Mrs. Cromwell rose.
"And now they must to bed—I fear it is already over-late."
The Lieutenant-General stooped and kissed each of them on the fair, untroubled brow.
"A good night, my dears, my sweets. A good night, my little wenches."
He lingered over the farewell caress half wistfully, and as they left the room his tired eyes followed them.