But now, in the quiet of the early morning, as he sat alone, the
reaction had come. He remembered how Rob MacFlynn had had too much, and
gone home maudlin to the wife who had toiled all day at the wash-tub. He
thought of the fight Joe Frier and Tom Stacey had had. And--he did not
drink much himself; he despised a drunkard--and these things disgusted him.
There was little Phil, too,--"the saloon-keeper's boy,"--and that cut deep.
Wouldn't it pay better, in the long run--and then the music floated softly
in.
He did not hear the words at first, but he had a good ear,--it was the
singing that had brought him, as a boy, into the beer-gardens,--and,
stepping to the window, he listened, all unseen by those without. There the
words reached him:--
"How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming,
But in this world of sin
Where meek souls will receive him"--
and until they sang the "Amen," Tim Shartow never stirred from the window.
* * * * *
The storm that had been threatening all day had descended.
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