o he lit a cigar
and lay down on the sofa to smoke it. And as his mother knit she lifted
her eyes occasionally and they were full of anxious pity. She knew not
_why_, and yet in her soul there was a dark, swelling sorrow which would
not for any adjuration of Scripture nor any imploration of prayer, be
stilled.

"I wonder what it is," she whispered. "I wonder if Jane----" then there
was a violent knocking at the front door, and she started to her feet,
uttering as she did so the word, "_Now!_" She knew instinctively,
whatever the trouble was, it was standing at her threshold, and she took
a candle in her hand and went to meet it face to face. It was a stranger
on a big horse with a telegram. He offered it to Mrs. Hatton, but John
had quickly followed his mother and he took it from her and read its
appalling message:

Come quickly! Martha is very, very ill!

A dark, heavy cloud took possession of both hearts, but John said only,
"Come with me, mother." "No," she answered, "this is Jane's opportunity.
I must not interfere with it. I shall be with you, dear John, though you
may not see. My kiss and blessing to the little one. God help her!
Hurry, John! I will have your horse at the door in ten minutes."

In that long, dark, hurrying ride to London, he suddenly remembered that
for two days he had been haunted by a waylaying thought of some verses
he had read and cut out of a daily paper, and with the remembrance, back
they came to his mind, setting themselves to a phantom melody he could
hardly refrain himself from softly singing,

"Many waters go softly dreaming
On to the sea,
But the river of Death floweth softest,
By tower and tree.

"No rush of the mournful waters
Breaks on the ear,
To tell us when Life is strongest,
That Death flows near.

"But through throbbing hearts of cities
In the heat of the day,
The cool, dark River passeth
On its silent way.

"This is the River that follows
Wherever we go,
No sand so dry and thirsty,
But these strange waters flow.

"Many waters go softly dreaming
On to the sea,
But the river of Death flows softest
To Thee and me.

"And the Lord's voice on the waters
Lingereth sweet,
He that is washed needest only
To wash his feet."

CHAPTER XIII

THE LOVE THAT NEVER FAILS

Go in peace, soul beautiful and blest!

Yet high above