Thou wilt reveal the hidden face thou wearest
When my feet falter at the Eternal Gates.”
Old Foes.
The Bridge over the Stream
We were at tea one afternoon on the little low, tiled platform that marked the site of an old summer-house. Tall hurdles covered with briar-roses on the further side of the path fenced off the rest of the garden from us, and the sun had just sunk below the level of the house, throwing both ourselves and the garden into cool shadow. The servant had brought out the tea-things, but he presently returned with something of horror on his face. The old man looked up and saw him.
“What is it, Parker?” he asked.
“There’s been an accident, sir. Tom Awcock at the home farm has been drawn into some machine, and they say he must lose both arms, and maybe his life.”
The old man turned quite white, and his eyes grew larger and brighter.
“Is the doctor with him?” he asked, in a perfectly steady voice.