“I hain’t—hain’t never—heered—much erbout Him,” returned the lad. “I heered the chap at the mission—school talk erbout—erbout Him some. I—I never paid much ’tention.”
His voice was stronger now, but in a moment the blood gushed from his lips again.
“Don’t talk—oh, don’t talk, Swivel?” cried Brandon beseechingly.
“’Twon’t matter—not much,” the boy returned, after a few minutes.
He felt blindly for Brandon’s hand and seized it tightly. Milly, still kneeling on the opposite side, held the other.
“Can’t ye say a prayer, like—like that feller in the mission did—er one o’ them hymns?” he muttered.
The boy and girl crouching above him looked into each other’s faces a moment in silence.
Brandon Tarr might have faced a thousand dangers without shrinking, but he could not do this. It remained for Milly to comply with the poor boy’s request.
After the terrific howling of the gale, the night seemed strangely still now. The hurrying, leaden clouds were fast breaking up, and here and there a ray of moonlight pierced their folds and lit up the froth flecked summits of the tossing billows.
One narrow band of light fell across her pale face as she raised it toward the frowning heavens and began to sing: