"But you will, won't you?" she went on calmly; "he'll tell you how—and you'll tell it too. Oh, it comforts so—I believe it because he does," her eyes turning now in reverence to Gordon's face.
"Yes, dear, yes, I'll try," I faltered, and the eager eyes looked content. Something prompted me to put my hands to my hair, though I had forgotten the flowers were there. "Would you like them, Jennie?" as I placed them in the wasted hand. I had no need to ask, so grateful was the light that kindled the wan face.
"These comfort too," she murmured. Then suddenly: "Can you sing?—I love when people sing to me, if I love them."
"Not very well, Jennie," I answered, for I knew I could not trust my voice.
"Please do," she pleaded; "just some little song."
I turned to Gordon; he was standing above me. "Let us try," he said; "suppose we sing 'Forever with the Lord'?"
I consented. But a quick impulse came to me and I whispered to him: "One of your psalms, Gordon—that lovely one about the Valley."
I saw how glad he was. "You must sing it too," he said; and then, in tones of more than womanly gentleness, he began the noble strain.
"Yea though I walk in death's dark vale
Yet will I fear none ill,
For Thou art with me and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still."
I didn't know then, and hardly know exactly yet, what those two last lines really mean; but no one could fail to see their power. They have been often tested when life's lamp was burning low; and the far-off music of Immortality, whatever be the meaning of the words, echoes through them. Jennie's face was beautiful to see.