"Like to an angel bending o'er the dying who die
in righteousness, she stood," when she and Lennard met with a sudden
surprise. The wounded man opened his great dark eyes that showed like
deep shadows on the dead white of his skin; he saw that clear, exquisite
face with all the divine fulness of womanly tenderness shining sweetly
from the kind eyes, and he smiled--a very beautiful smile. He could
speak very low, and the awe-stricken girl murmured--
"Oh, hear him, Mr. Lennard, hear him!"
The man spoke in a slow monotone.
"Its all right, and I'm there arter all. I've swoor, and Ive drunk, and
yet arter all I'm forgiven. That's because I prayed at the very last
minute, an' He heerd me. The angel hasn't got no wings like what they
talked about, but that don't matter; I'm here, and safe, and I'll meet
the old woman when her time comes, and no error; but it ain't no thanks
to _me_."
Then the remarkable theologian drew a heavy sigh of gladness, and passed
into torpor again. Tom Lennard, in a stage whisper which was calculated
to soothe a sick man much as the firing of cannon might, said--
"Well, of all the what's-his-names, that beats every book that ever
was."
Tears were standing in the lady's sweet eyes, and there was something
hypocritical in the startling cough whereby Thomas endeavoured to pose
as a hard and seasoned old medical character.
Meanwhile Ferrier was slung on board the smack which hailed first, and
his education was continued with a vengeance.
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