The trees were growing bare; the flowers were
few and without scent; the birds did not sing any more, but were shy,
and twittered and complained, while the swallows were restless, like
those going a long journey. Singing time was over, life burning down,
it was natural to be silent and to sigh a little.
They left the basket on Martha's table and went quietly up the
street. In a few minutes they met the preacher, but he also seemed
strangely solemn, and very little inclined to talk. At the chapel
gates there were five or six people standing. "We are going to have
a prayer-meeting," he said, "will you come in?"
"It will soon be dark," answered Elizabeth, "we must reach home as
quickly as possible."
Just then Martha Craven came out of the chapel. A sorrow nobly borne
confers a kind of moral rank. Her neighbors, with respect and pity,
stood aside silently. She appeared to be quite unconscious of them.
At Phyllis and Elizabeth she looked with great sad eyes, and shook
her head mournfully. To the preacher she said, "It's t' eleventh hour,
sir, and no answer yet!"
"Go thy ways, Martha Craven. It will come! It is impossible thy prayers
should fail! As the Lord liveth no harm shall come to thee or to
thine!"
The plain little man was transfigured. No ancient prophet at the height
of his vision ever spoke with more authority.
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