Hills of the Shatemuc Part 108

"'Jerusalem! my happy home -- "'Name ever dear to me -- "'When shall my labours have an end, "' In joy and peace in thee!"'

Winnie's voice was as sweet and clear as a bird's, if weakness left it not much stronger; that of her brother was deep, mellow, and exceeding fine; it was no wonder that the skipper turned his head and forgot his tiller to catch the fulness of every note. When the last had sounded, there was nothing to be heard but the rippling of water under the sloop's prow; the sails were steady and full, the moonlight not more noiseless; the wind swept on with them softly, just giving a silent breath to their cheeks; the skipper held his tiller with a moveless hand.

"What next, Winnie?" her brother whispered. The soft gurgle of the water had been heard for several minutes.

"How fond Karen is of that hymn," said Winifred. "Governor, do you think I shall live long in this world?"

She was leaning, half lying, upon Winthrop, with his arm round her. Her voice had put the question in precisely the same tone that it had given the remark.

"Why do you ask me that, Winnie?"

"Because -- sometimes I think I sha'n't, -- and I want to know what you think."

"You will live, I am sure, dear Winnie, till G.o.d has done for you all he means to do; -- till he has fitted his child for heaven; -- and then he will take her."

"I know that," said Winifred with a grateful half look up at him; -- "but I mean -- you know I am not well quite, and weak, and I don't think I get any better; -- don't you think that it won't take a very great while, very likely?"

"How would you feel, Winnie, if you thought that was so?"

"I _do_ think it sometimes -- pretty often," -- said Winnie, "and it don't make me feel sorry, Governor."

"You think heaven is better than earth."

"Yes, --and then -- that's one good thing of my sickness -- it don't seem as if I ever could do much if I lived, so it matters the less."

"n.o.body knows how much he does, who does his duty," said Winthrop.

"Why I can't do anything at all!" said Winnie.

"Every talent that isn't buried brings something into the treasury," said Winthrop.

"Yes -- that's pleasant," said Winnie; -- "but I don't know what mine is."

"The good that people do unconsciously is often more than that they intend."

"Unconsciously! -- But then they don't know whether they do it or not?"

"It don't hurt them, not to know," said her brother smiling.

"But what sort of good-doing is that, Winthrop?"

"It only happens in the case of those persons whose eye is very single; -- with their eye full of the light they are reflecting, they cannot see the reflection. But it is said of those that 'their works do follow them.'"

Winnie was tearfully silent, thinking of the ingathering of joy there would be for one that she knew; and if Winthrop's arm was drawn a little closer round her little figure, perhaps it was with a like thought for her. How bright the moonlight shone!

"That's pleasant to think, Governor, -- both parts of it," said Winifred softly, beating his hand slightly with one of her own. He was silent.

"Now won't you sing something else? -- for I'm tired," she said, nestling her head more heavily on his breast.

And he sang again. --

"'Vain are all terrestrial pleasures, "' Mixed with dross the purest gold; "'Seek we then for heavenly treasures, "'Treasures never growing old.

"'Let our best affections centre "'On the things around the throne; "'There no thief can ever enter, -- "'Moth and rust are there unknown.

"'Earthly joys no longer please us, "'Here would we renounce them all, "'Seek our only rest in Jesus, "'Him our Lord and Master call.

"'Faith, our languid spirits cheering, "'Points to brighter worlds above; "'Bids us look for his appearing, "'Bids us triumph in his love.

"'Let our lights be always burning, "'And our loins be girded round, "'Waiting for our Lord's returning, "'Longing for the joyful sound.

"'Thus the christian life adorning, "'Never need we be afraid, "'Should he come at night or morning, "'Early dawn, or evening shade."'

The air was slow, tender, and plaintive, and borne by the deep voice over all the breadth of the moon-lit river. Winnie's breath was fuller drawn; the skipper held his, and forgot his helm; and in every pause of the song, the sweet interlude was played by the water under the sloop's prow.

"Governor --" said Winnie, when the bubbling water had been listened to alone for a while.

"What?"

"Do you think those words are quite true?"

"Those words of the hymn?"

"Yes -- some of them. I think you like that hymn better than I do. 'Earthly joys no longer please us'; -- do you think that is right? -- They please me."

"It is only by comparison that they can be true, Winnie, certainly; -- except in the case of those persons whose power of enjoyment is by some reason or other taken away."

"But you like that hymn very much?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"I like part of it very much, and I like the tune; but I like to be able to say all the words of a hymn. How sweet that was!

-- Governor, don't you think it would be pleasant to stay here all night?"

"Singing?"

"No -- but talking, and sleeping."

"I am afraid it would sadly hinder to-morrow's talk, and oblige you to sleep instead."

"Then I'll go right away. Do you think we shall be at Wut-a- qut-o in the morning?"

"If the wind holds."

By Winthrop's care and management the little cabin was made not absolutely uncomfortable, and Winnie's bed was laid on the floor between door and window so that she could sleep without being smothered. He himself mounted guard outside, and sleeping or waking kept the deck for the whole night.

"Governor," said Winnie cautiously putting her head out at the door, just as the summer dawn was growing into day, -- "Governor! -- are we there?"