‘Aye, mother—I know ye all. There be Luke—there be little Madlin—and that be Brother Billy Hornblower—I’ve been a-dreaming that he was a-singing to me.’
‘And so I were, Brother Peartree,’ exclaimed the musician softly.
‘Was ye now?9 said Uncle Mark, smiling gently. ‘Well, mate, I take that as wery kind.’
He closed his eyes again. Brother Hornblower turned his simple face to Mrs. Peartree and whispered:—
‘There be another werse, Sister Peartree—shall I sing it? He seems to feel it kind o’ soothin’, and,’ he added eagerly, ‘them’s blessed words.’
Mrs. Peartree nodded; she could not speak, for her tears choked her; and the thin but musical voice piped again:
Who’s afraid when Jesus
Like an angel stands,
Holding sheet and tiller
In His holy hands?