"I know I'm weak and sinful,
But Jesus will forgive,
For many little children,
Have gone to heaven to live.
Dear Saviour, when I languish,
And lay me down to die,
Oh send a shining angel
To bear me to the sky!
"Oh there I'll be an angel,
And with the angels stand!
A crown upon my forehead,
A harp within my hand.
And there before my Saviour,
So glorious and so bright,
I'll wake the sweetest music,
And praise him day and night!"
The two listeners stood still while the hymn was singing, still as the air; but Mr. Simlins got no more sight of Faith's face. They stood still when the hymn was finished, as if they lingered where the last vibrations had been. But as a general stir among the hymn party proclaimed that they would soon be on the move, the two who had watched them, as if by consent, turned short about and silently picked their way back through the darkening wood to the nearest point of road they could reach. It was far from home, and even out of the wood the light was failing; they walked with quick steps. Mr. Simlins could get glances now at Faith's face, but though it was quiet enough, he seemed for some reason or other in a disagreeable state of mind. It made itself manifest at length in a grunt of considerable power.
"Ugh!—this is a complexious sort of a world to live in!"—was his not very clear remark. The contrast of the tone of the next words was striking.
"Dear Mr. Simlins, there is something better."
"What do you call me 'dear' for?" growled he. "You never did before."
"I don't know," said Faith. "Because I want you to be as happy as I am."
"Be you so happy?" said the farmer inquisitively.
Faith said yes. It was a calm and clear yes; a confident yes; one that felt its foundations strong and deep; yet Faith's mother or dearest friend, if gifted with quick apprehensions, would hardly have been satisfied with it. Was Mr. Simlins so gifted?
"Not so happy you couldn't be happier?" he said in a tone that assumed it.