She began with a stern watch upon her own emotions. But, as she proceeded, from the sadness of the hour rose a longing in her soul for the "ain countrie" where no blight of death and tears are known, and it poured itself out in the song. She sang two of the long stanzas.
"I've His guid word o' promise that some gladsome day the King
To His ain royal palace His banished hame will bring.
Wi' heart and wi' een rinnin' ower we shall see
The King in a' His beauty in oor ain countrie.
Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
I wad fain be agangin' noo unto my Saviour's breast;
For He gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me,
An' carries them Himself to His ain countrie."
Mrs. Gray had been lying with closed eyes through which the tears forced their way. Now she interrupted:
"What does it say, Winifred? 'He gathers in His bosom?' Please sing those lines again."
So Winifred repeated:
"'For He gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me,
And carries them Himsel' to His ain countrie.'"
"Thank you!" murmured the invalid with a sigh. "Is it true, Winnie?"
"Yes, mother, it is quite true."
"That is what—I have been." She was speaking again with difficulty, and her voice was very low, so that Winifred leaned forward to listen. "I've been—a 'witless, worthless lamb!' Will He—gather—me?"
"I know He will—if you trust Him!"