When their early Sunday repast was over, Margaret, as usual, led the way to the old walnut-tree seat; she had Keble’s “Christian Year” in her hand and a volume of Herbert’s poems—for wearied by his labors, Raby often preferred some sacred poetry or interesting biography to be read to him between the services, or often he bade her close her book or read to herself if his thoughts were busy with his evening sermon.
The strip of lawn that surrounded the walnut-tree led to a broad gravel walk with a sun-dial and a high southern wall where peaches ripened, and nectarines and apricots sunned themselves; here there was another seat, where on cold autumn mornings or mild winter days one could sit and feel the mild, chastened sunshine stealing round one with temperate warmth; a row of bee-hives stood under the wall, where sweetest honey from the surrounding clover-fields was made by the busy brown workers, “the little liverymen of industry,” as Raby called them, or “his preachers in brown.”
Margaret glanced at her brother rather anxiously as she took her place beside him; he looked more than usually tired, she thought; deep lines furrowed his broad forehead, and the firmly compressed lips spoke of some effort to repress heart-weariness.
“He is thinking of our poor child,” she said to herself, as she turned to the beautiful poem for the seventh Sunday after Trinity: “From whence can a man satisfy these men with bread here in the wilderness”—the very text as she knew that Raby had selected for his evening sermon at Pierrepoint; but as her smooth, melodious voice lingered involuntarily over the third verse, a sigh burst from Raby’s lips.
“Landscape of fear! yet, weary heart,
Thou need’st not in thy gloom depart,
Nor fainting turn to seek thy distant home:
Sweetly thy sickening throbs are eyed
By the kind Saviour at thy side;
For healing and for balm e’en now thy hour is come.”