His eyes were full of tears when they closed, for that hymn was his wife's favorite. He had taught it to Dawn, without telling her that her mother ever sung it.
“It seemed just as though mamma was here and sang too, papa, did n't it?”
“Mamma, no doubt, is with us. I am glad my little girl feels her presence, and always remember that she is with you, too, when you feel tempted to do wrong.”
She nestled her head on his bosom and wept. Tears of joy or sorrow? Only they whose souls are finely and intensely strung, can know what made her weep.
“You must sing for us now, Miss Vernon,” he said, and would have led her to the instrument, but for the burden of love, which was resting on his heart.
“I play only simple songs, Mr. Wyman, and, indeed, am quite out of practice.”
“You have some gems stowed away, I know; please sing us one.”
She arose, and after a few trembling notes, sang a sweet song with such pathos and richness that Mr. Wyman called again for more and more. Dawn was wild with joy, and then her father, after Miss Vernon declined to play more, proposed that they should sing an evening hymn.
In this they all joined, Miss Vernon's rich contralto blending sweetly with Dawn's pure soprano.
Their dreams were sweet and peaceful that night. Their souls had all met and harmonized, and harmony ever brings rest.