Just then, in sweet, rich tones, came in the melody—
“O, there is rest, O, there is rest,
Yes, there is rest for my soul.”
“And your body, too,” growled Mr. Warner. “If you women had the trials I have with Ned, you would not set so much store by him.”
“I won’t deny that he’s trying, Henry; but when one is weary and fretted with a long, hot day’s work, it is the most soothing thing in the world to hear the child singing in the twilight about rest for his soul. It rests me way to my toes.”
“It would rest me a heap more if he did his work. Now, you see when I called him to help he was singing about rest, but supper being ready, he comes along without being called even.”
Bare feet came pattering along the porch and a little black face peeped in the window.
“Did you call me, Mis’ser Warner?” The farmer grunted and drew up to the table.
“Henry called you a long time ago, Neddy; why did you not come?”