"I suppose," I answered, "she brooded over what she believed was her sister's suicide night and day--she confessed she did--and her thoughts being concentrated on this place, they felt like a--like a burning glass."
"Burning glass is good," said M'Leod.
"I said it was like a light of blackness turned on us," cried the girl, twiddling her ring. "That must have been when the tall one thought worst about her sister and the house."
"Ah, the poor Aggie!" said Mrs. M'Leod. "The poor Aggie, trying to tell every one it was not so! No wonder we felt Something wished to say Something. Thea, Max, do you remember that night "
"We need not remember any more," M'Leod interrupted. "It is not our trouble. They have told each other now."
"Do you think, then," said Miss M'Leod, "that those two, the living ones, were actually told something--upstairs--in your in the room?"
"I can't say. At any rate they were made happy, and they ate a big tea afterwards. As your father says, it is not our trouble any longer--thank God!"
"Amen!" said M'Leod. "Now, Thea, let us have some music after all these months. 'With mirth, thou pretty bird,' ain't it? You ought to hear that."
And in the half-lighted hall, Thea sang an old English song that I had never heard before.
With mirth, thou pretty bird, rejoice Thy Maker's praise enhanced; Lift up thy shrill and pleasant voice, Thy God is high advanced! Thy food before He did provide, And gives it in a fitting side, Wherewith be thou sufficed! Why shouldst thou now unpleasant be, Thy wrath against God venting, That He a little bird made thee, Thy silly head tormenting, Because He made thee not a man? Oh, Peace! He hath well thought thereon, Therewith be thou sufficed! THE RABBI'S SONG IF THOUGHT can reach to Heaven, On Heaven let it dwell, For fear that Thought be given Like power to reach to Hell. For fear the desolation And darkness of thy mind, Perplex an habitation Which thou hast left behind. Let nothing linger after-- No whispering ghost remain, In wall, or beam, or rafter, Of any hate or pain: Cleanse and call home thy spirit, Deny her leave to cast, On aught thy heirs inherit, The shadow of her past. For think, in all thy sadness, What road our griefs may take; Whose brain reflect our madness, Or whom our terrors shake. For think, lest any languish By cause of thy distress The arrows of our anguish Fly farther than we guess. Our lives, our tears, as water, Are spilled upon the ground; God giveth no man quarter, Yet God a means hath found; Though faith and hope have vanished, And even love grows dim; A means whereby His banished Be not expelled from Him!
Rudyard Kipling.