See how hard ’tis blowing,
Th’re’ll be win; to-night—
Tremble not, my brothers,
He will steer us right.
Steer the wessel, Jesus,
Steer it night and day.
To the Golden City
Far, far away.
While the hymn lasted, Uncle Mark remained lying in his wife’s arms as if asleep—he remained so for some time after the hymn was done. The kettle went on singing, the cat went on purring, and the clock seemed to tick with more bell-like clearness than before. When he again opened his eyes the old wandering look had passed away.
‘Do you know me, Mark, dear?’ asked his wife.