Gerald nodded.
“And drifted ’way out to sea,” he went on, “and ’twas black and cold and rough and daddy began to think of the shore and that gran’ma was there—’twas before he had mamma and me—and he cried out to the ‘very present help.’ I don’t think daddy knew, ‘God is love’—‘unfailing, quick’ then, or he’d have said it out loud like I do.”
“And was he—saved?”
“Sure.”
Gilbert Graham sat silent, one hand shading his eyes. Gerald watched him for a few minutes, then, with a child’s curiosity, reached up and drew away one of the strong, supple fingers. He was surprised to find that it was wet.
“Little chap—” the man’s voice caught in his throat as he put one arm round the boy—“I don’t mind telling you that I’m out on that same sea—far out, farther out than your daddy ever was, and it’s dark and cold and rough and—” his forehead fell back upon his hand—“I think that I’m going to sink!”
Gerald laid one moist, warm palm against his cheek.
“But you can’t sink!” he declared. “The ‘very present help’ won’t let you sink, if--if you catch hold of it.”
“I don’t know how,” the man groaned, “I’ve lost my grip.”
“It isn’t your grip,” the boy urged, “the water’d loosen that, anyhow. I know, for I’ve tried holding on to a rock and when a wave comes it always makes you let go. But the ‘very present help’ never lets go. It’s God, you know. And if God let go the sun would fall down and the stars would fall down and we’d all fall down, mamma says. But He never does, and so there’s nothing to be afraid of.”