He arose, recalling where his mother was wont to pray. Had she not told him, and had Jessie not spoken of it often? Beside his own bed, he knew—there, where he once had slept the sleep of childhood in the innocent and happy days of yore; there had been her altar, where, kneeling before God, she had pleaded that the keeping and guidance of the Highest might be vouchsafed her absent son. Thither he turned his steps, his heart aflame within him; one hand still held his mother's Bible, the other the precious letter. And he laid them both before the Throne, sacred things, familiar to the all-seeing Eye, pledges of a faith that must not be denied.
The silence still reigned about the bended form. But it was vocal with unspoken vows, the vows of a soul that unseen hands, wasted once and worn but radiant now and beautiful, had beckoned to the Mercy Seat. He could not see the bending face; he could not know the exultation of the triumphant one—but he knew that the dear spirit shared with him the rapture of that hour when his mother's prayers were answered, when his soul came back to God.
XXXIII
PLAIN LIVING AND HIGH THINKING
The day slipped past in quiet solitude, marked by the peace of penitence and inward chastening; convalescence is the sweetest experience of the soul and the outlook to the eternal is its rest. Harvey felt in no hurry to leave the pavilion-home, thronged as it was with blessed memories. But when the evening fell, a curious eagerness quickened his steps towards David Borland's altered home. He had not visited it before. Drawing near, the first figure he descried was that of David himself, engaged in the very diminutive garden that lay beside the house. He had not noticed Harvey's approach. A shade of pain darkened the eye of the younger man as, unobserved, he took a keen survey of the older face. For not alone was David more thin and worn; his cheeks had lost their colour, pinched and pale, and it required no special acuteness to detect how changed he was from the robust David of former years. Suddenly lifting his head, Mr. Borland saw Harvey close at hand; he dropped the light tool he was holding, hurrying to greet the visitor.
"You're as welcome as a registered letter," he cried in his old hearty way; "come on an' sit down—there's nothin' tastes so good in a new house as an old friend. I've been hungerin' for a mouthful of you. I was jest doin' a little work," he explained—"when a fellow's got to work hard, nothin' makes it so easy as doin' a little more. I'm goin' to raise some flowers," he went on, pointing to a tiny bed; "nothin' pays like flowers—it pays better than manufacturin', I think sometimes. Here, sit beside me on the bench," for David seemed willing to rest. "How's Jessie?" he asked presently, his general observations concluded.
"Lovely," answered Harvey. "She's visiting Miss Farringall."
"So I believe. They say Miss Farringall's lovely too, ain't she?"
Harvey pronounced a eulogy.
"She's an old maid, ain't she?"