It was Mandy offering him her book. Once more a snicker
from the group of delighted observers behind him stirred his indignation
on behalf of this awkward and untutored girl. He forced himself to
listen to the words of the third verse, which rose clear and sonorous in
the preacher's voice:
"Here I raise my Ebenezer,
Hither by Thy help I'm come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home."
The serene assurance of the old Methodist hymn rose triumphant in the
singing, an assurance born of an experience of past conflict ending
in triumph. That note of high and serene confidence conjured up with
a flash of memory his mother's face. That was her characteristic, a
serene, undismayed courage. In the darkest hours that steady flame of
courage never died down.
But once more he was recalled to the service of the hour by a voice,
rich, full, low, yet of wonderful power, singing the old words. It took
him a moment or two to discover that it was Mandy singing beside him.
Her face was turned from him and upwards towards the trees above her,
through the network of whose leaves the stars were beginning to shine.
Amazed, enthralled, he listened to the flowing melody of her voice.
It was like the song of a brook running deep in the forest shade,
full-toned yet soft, quiet yet thrilling.
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