“What book have you there?” asked Mr. Grame, noticing one in his other hand.
“Herbert,” answered the young man, showing it. “I filched it from your table through the open window, Grame.”
The clergyman took it. It chanced to open at a passage he was very fond of. Or perhaps he knew the place, and opened it purposely.
“Do you know these verses, Hubert? They are appropriate enough just now, while those birds are carolling.”
“I can’t tell. What verses? Read them.”
“Hark, how the birds do sing,
And woods do ring!
All creatures have their joy, and man hath his,
Yet, if we rightly measure,
Man’s joy and pleasure
Rather hereafter than in present is.
Not that we may not here
Taste of the cheer;
But as birds drink and straight lift up the head,
So must he sip and think
Of better drink
He may attain to after he is dead.”
“Ay,” said Hubert, breaking the silence after a time, “it’s very true, I suppose. But this world—oh, it’s worth living for. Will anything in the next, Grame, be more beautiful than that?”
He was pointing to the sunset, marvellously and unusually beautiful. Lovely pink and crimson clouds flecked the west; in their midst shone a dazzling golden light too glorious to look upon.
“One might fancy it the portals of heaven,” said the clergyman; “the golden gate of entrance, leading to the pearly gates within, and to the glittering walls of precious stones.”