“Guess who,” said he, in a shrill falsetto.
“It's Robert Bruce,” said Bud, without moving.
“No—cold—cold!—guess again,” said her uncle, growling like Giant Blunderbore.
“I'll mention no names,” said she, “but it's mighty like Uncle Dan.”
He stood in front of her and put on a serious face. “What's this I am hearing, Miss Lennox,” said he, “about a little girl who doesn't know a lot of things nice little girls ought to know?”
“'Man's chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever,'” repeated Bud, reflectively. “I've got that all right, but what does it mean?”
“What does it mean?” said Mr. Dyce, a bit taken aback. “You tell her, Bell; what does it mean? I must not be late for the court.”
“You're far cleverer than I am,” said Bell. “Tell her yourself.”
“It means,” said Daniel Dyce, the lawyer, seating himself on the sofa beside his niece, “that man in himself is a gey poor soul, no' worth a pin, though he's apt to think the world was made for his personal satisfaction. At the best he's but an instrument—a harp of a thousand strings God bends to hear in His leisure. He made that harp—the heart and mind of man—when He was in a happy hour. Strings hale and strings broken, strings slack or tight, there are all kinds of them; the best we can do's to be taut and trembling for the gladness of God who loves fine music, and set the stars themselves to singing from the very day He put them birling in the void. To glorify's to wonder and adore, and who keeps the wondering, humble heart, the adoring eye, is to God pleasing exceedingly. Sing, lassie, sing, sing, sing, inside ye, even if ye are as timmer as a cask. God knows I have not much of a voice myself, but I'm full of nobler airs than ever crossed my rusty thrapple. To be grateful always, and glad things are no worse, is a good song to start the morning.”
“Ah, but sin, Dan, sin!” said Bell, sighing, for she always feared her own light-heartedness. “We may be too joco.”