Chapter 12

PROFIT AND LOSS

    The trifles of our daily life,
      The common things scarce worth recall,
    Whereof no visible trace remains,
      These are the main springs after all.
    O why to those who need them not,
      Should Love's best gifts be given!
    How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot,
      On this side of heaven?
The thing that John feared, had happened to him, no miracle had
prevented it, and that day he must shut the great gates of Hatton
factory. He could hardly realize the fact. He kept wondering if his
father knew it, but if so, he told himself he would doubtless know the
why and the wherefore and the end of it. He would know, also, that his
son John had done all a man could do to prevent it. This was now a great
consolation and he had also a confident persuasion that the enforced
lock-out would only last for a short time.
"Things have got to their worst, Greenwood," he said, "and when the tide
is quite out, it turns instantly for the onward flow."
"To be sure it does, sir," was the answer. "Your honored father, sir,
used to say, 'If changes don't come, make them come. Things aren't
getting on without them.'"
"How long can we run, Greenwood?"
"Happen about four hours, sir."
"When the looms give up, send men and women to the lunchroom."
"All right, sir."
Was it all right? If so, had he not been fighting a useless battle and
got worsted? But he could not talk with his soul that morning. He could
not even think. He sat passive and was dumb because it was evidently
God's doing. Perhaps he had been too proud of his long struggle, and it
was good spiritual correction for him to go down into the valley of
humiliation. Short ejaculatory prayers fell almost unconsciously from
his lips, mainly for the poor men and women he must lock out to poverty
and suffering.
Finally his being became all hearing. Life appeared to stand still a
moment as loom after loom stopped. A sudden total silence followed. It
was broken by a long piercing wail as if some woman had been hurt, and
in a few minutes Greenwood looked into his office and said, "They be all
waiting for you, sir." The man spoke calmly, even cheerfully, and John
roused himself and with an assumed air of hopefulness went to speak to
his workers.
They were standing together and on every face there was a quiet
steadfastness that was very impressive. John went close to them so that
he seemed to mingle with them. "Men and women," he said, "I have done my
best."
"Thou hes, and we all know it."
It was Timothy Briggs, the manager of the engine room, who spoke, a man
of many years and many experiences. "Thou hes done all a man could do,"
he added, "and we are more than a bit proud of thee."
"I do not think we shall be long idle," continued John, "and when we
open the gates again, there will be spinning and weaving work that will
keep the looms busy day and night. And the looms will be in fine order
to begin work at an hour's notice. When the first bell rings, I shall be
at my desk; let me see how quickly you will all be at your looms again."
"How long, master, will it be till we hear the sound of the bell again?"
"Say till midsummer. I do not think it will be longer. No, I do not. Let
us bear the trial as cheerfully as we can. I am not going a mile from
Hatton, and if any man or woman has a trouble I can lighten, let them
come to me. And our God is not a far-off God. He is a very present help
in time of need." With these words John lifted his hat a moment, and as
he turned away, Greenwood led the little company out, singing
confidently,
    "We thank Him for all that is past,
    We trust Him for all that's to come."
John did not go home for some hours. He went over his books and brought
all transactions up to date, and accompanied by Greenwood made a careful
inspection of every loom, noted what repairs or alterations were
necessary, and hired a sufficient number of boys to oil and dust the
looms regularly to keep the mill clean and all the metal work bright and
shining. So it was well on in the afternoon when he turned homeward.
Jane met him at the park gates, and they talked the subject over under
the green trees with the scent of the sweetbriar everywhere and the
April sunshine over every growing thing. She was a great help and
comfort. He felt her encouraging smiles and words to be like wine and
music, and when they sat down to dinner together, they were a wonder to
their household. They did not speak of the closed mill and they did not
look like people who expected a hard and sorrowful time.
"They hev a bit o' money laid by for theirsens," said the selfish who
judged others out of their own hearts; but the majority answered
quickly, "Not they! Not a farthing! Hatton hes spent his last shilling
to keep Hatton mill going, and how he is going to open it when peace
comes caps everyone who can add this and that together."
The first week of idleness was not the worst. John and Greenwood found
plenty to do among the idle looms, but after all repairs and alterations
had been completed, then John felt the stress of hours that had no
regular daily task. For the first time in his life his household saw him
irritable. He spoke impatiently and did not know it until the words were
beyond recall. Jane had at such times a new feeling about her husband.
She began to wonder how she could bear it if he were always "so short
and dictatorial." She concluded that it must be his mill way. "But I am
not going to have it brought into my house," she thought. "Poor John! He
must be suffering to be so still and yet so cross."
One day she went to Harlow House to see her mother and she spoke to her
about John's crossness. Then she found that John had Mrs. Harlow's
thorough sympathy.
"Think of the thousands of pounds he has lost, Jane. For my part I
wonder he has a temper of any kind left; and all those families on his
hands, as it were. I am sure it is no wonder he is cross at times. Your
father would not have been to live with at all."
"I hope you have not lost much, mother."
"O Jane, how could I help losing? Well then, I have been glad I could
give. When hungry children _look_ at you, they do not need to speak. My
God, Jane! You must have seen that look--if it was in Martha's eyes----"
Jane caught her breath with a cry, "O mother! Mother! Do not say such
words! I should die!"
"Yes. Many mothers did die. It was like a knife in their heart. When did
you see John's mother?"
"The day the children came from Metwold."
"Did you speak to her?"
"No."
"Why not? She has been kind to me."
"You have given her milk for the children, I suppose."
"All I could spare. I do not grudge a drop of it."
Then Jane laid her arm across her mother's shoulders and looked lovingly
at her. "I am so glad," she said. "You may value money highly, mother,
but you can cast it away for higher things."
"I hope I should never hesitate about that, Jane. A baby's life is worth
all the money I have"--and Jane sighed and went home with a new thought
in her heart.
She found John and his little daughter in the garden planting bulbs and
setting out hardy geraniums. She joined them, and then she saw the old,
steadfast light on her husband's face and the old sure smile around his
mouth. She put her hand in his hand and looked at him with a question in
her loving eyes. He smiled and nodded slightly and drew her hand through
his arm.
"Let us go into the house," he said. "The evenings are yet chilly"--and
they walked together silently and were happy without thought or
intention of being happy. A little later as they sat alone, Jane said,
"You look so much better than you have done lately, John. Have you had
any good news?"
"Yes, my dear one--the best of news."
"Who brought it?"
"One who never yet deceived me."
"You know it to be true?"
"Beyond a doubt. My darling, I have been thinking of the sad time you
have had here."
"I hope I have done some good, John."
"You have done a great deal of good. The trouble is nearly over, it will
be quite over in a few weeks. Now you could go to London and see your
aunt. A change will do you good."
"Cannot you and Martha go with me? You have nothing to do yet."
"I shall have plenty to do in a short time. I must be preparing for it."
"Then I must be content with Martha. It will be good for the child to
have a change."
"Oh, I could not part with both you and Martha!"
"Nor could I part with both you and Martha. Besides, who is to watch
over the child? She would be too much alone. I should be miserable in
London without her."
"I thought while you were in London, I would have the house thoroughly
cleaned and renovated. I would open it up to every wind of heaven and
let them blow away all sad, anxious thoughts lurking in the corners and
curtains."
"O John, I would like that so much! It would be a great comfort to me.
But you can see that Martha would be running about cold and warm, wet
and dry, and her old nurse went to Shipley when she left here."
"I have considered these things, Jane, and decided that I would take
Martha up to Hatton Hall, and we would stay with mother while you were
away. It would be a great pleasure to mother, and do us all good."
"But, John, London would be no pleasure to me without Martha."
"I feel much the same, Jane. Martha is the joy of life to me. You must
leave me my little daughter. You know her grandmother will take every
care of her."
"I can take care of her myself. She has been my companion and comforter
all through these past four years of sorrow. I cannot part with her, not
for a day."
This controversy regarding the child was continued with unremitting
force of feeling on both sides for some time, but John finally gave way
to Jane's insistence, and the early days of April were spent in
preparations for the journey to London and the redecoration of the home.
Then one exquisite spring morning they went away in sunshine and smiles,
and John returned alone to his lonely and disorderly house. The very
furniture looked forlorn and unhappy. It was piled up and covered with
unsightly white cloths. John hastily closed the doors of the rooms that
had always been so lovely in their order and beautiful associations. He
could not frame himself to work of any kind, his heart was full of
regrets and forebodings. "I will go to my mother," he thought. "Until I
hear they are safe in Lord Harlow's house, I can do nothing at all."
So he went up to Hatton Hall and found his mother setting her
dinner-table. "Eh, but I am glad to see thee, John!" she cried joyfully.
"Come thy ways in, dear lad. There's a nice roast turning over a
Yorkshire pudding; thou art just in a fit time. What brought thee up the
hill this morning?"
"I came to see your face and hear your voice, mother."
"Well now! I am glad and proud to hear that. How is Martha and her
mother?"
"They are on their way to London."
"However could thou afford it?"
"Sometimes we spend money we cannot afford."
"To be sure we do--and are always sorry for it. Thou should have brought
Martha up here and sent her mother to London by herself."
"Jane would not go without her."
"I'm astonished at thee! I am astonished at thee, John Hatton!"
"I did not want her to go. I said all I could to prevent it."
"That was not enough. Thou should not have permitted her to go."
"Jane thought the change would do her good."
"Late hours, late dinners, lights, and noise, and crowded streets, and
air that hes been breathed by hundreds and thousands before it reaches
the poor child, and----"
"Nay, mother, that's enough. Count up no more dangers. I am miserable as
it is. How goes all with you?"
"Why, John, it goes and goes, and I hardly know where it goes or how it
goes, and the mischief of it all is this--some are getting so used to
the Government feeding and clothing them that they'll think it a
hardship when they hev to feed and clothe themselves."
"Not they, or else they are not men of this countryside. How is Harry? I
heard a queer story about him and others yesterday."
"Queer it might be, but it was queer in a good way if it is set against
Harry. What did you hear?"
"That Harry had trained a quartette of singers and that they had given
two concerts in Harrow-gate and three in Scarborough and Halifax, and
come back with nearly five hundred pounds for the starving mill-hands in
Hatton District."
"That is so--and I'm thankful to say it! People were glad to give. Many
were not satisfied with buying tickets; they added a few pounds or
shillings as they could spare them. Lord Thirsk went with the company
as finance manager. People like a lord at the head of anything, and
Thirsk is Yorkshire, well known and trusted."
"No more known and trusted than is Hatton. I think Harry might have
asked me. It is a pity they did not think of this plan earlier."
"There may be time enough for the plan to wear itself out yet."
"No. We shall have peace and cotton in three months."
"However can thou say a thing like that?"
"Because I know it."
Then she looked steadily at him. He smiled confidently back, and no
further doubt troubled her. "I believe thee, John," she said, "and I
shall act accordingly."
"You may safely do so, mother. How is Lucy?" "Quite well, and the new
baby is the finest little fellow I ever saw. Harry says they are going
to call him John. Harry is very fond of thee."
"To be sure he is and I am fond of him. I wonder how they manage for
cash? Do you think they need it? Have they asked you for any?"
"Not a farthing. Lucy makes the income meet the outgo. The farm feeds
the family and Harry earns more than a little out of the music and song
God put into him."
"A deal depends on a man's wife, mother."
"Everything depends on her. A man must ask his wife whether he is to do
well with his life or make a failure of it. What wilt thou do with
thyself while Jane is in London?"
"I am going to stay with you mostly, mother. There will be painters and
paperers and cleaners in my home and a lot of dirt and confusion."
"Where is thy economy now, John?"
"When God turns again and blesses Hatton, He will come with both hands
full. The mill is in beautiful order, ready for work at any moment. I
will make clean and fair my dwelling; then a blessing may light on both
places."
It was in this spirit he worked and as the days lengthened his hopes and
prospects strengthened and there was soon so much to do that he could
not afford the time for uncalled anxiety. He was quickly set at rest
about his wife and daughter. Jane wrote that they had received a most
affectionate welcome and that Martha had conquered her uncle and aunt's
household.
     Uncle is not happy, if Martha is out of sight [she wrote] and Aunt
     is always planning some new pleasure for her. And, John, Uncle is
     never tired of praising your pluck and humanity. He says he wishes
     the Almighty had given him such an opportunity; he thinks he would
     have done just as you have done. It was a little strange that Uncle
     met a great Manchester banker the other day, and while they were
     talking of the trouble, now so nearly over, this man said,
     "Gentlemen, a great many of us have done well, but there is a
     cotton-spinner in the Yorkshire wolds that has excelled us
     all--one John Hatton. He mortgaged and sold all he had and kept his
     looms going till the war was practically over. His people have not
     been idle two months. What do you think of that?"
     Some man answered, he did not think it was extraordinary, for John
     Hatton of Hatton-Elmete was of the finest blood in England. He
     could not help doing the grand thing if it was there to be done.
     And then another man took it up and said your blood and family had
     nothing to do with your conduct. Many poor spinners would have done
     as you did, if they had been your equals in money. Then the first
     speaker answered, "We can do without any of your 'equality' talk,
     Sam Thorpe. What the cream is, the cheese is. Chut! Where's your
     equality now?" Uncle told me much more but that is enough of praise
     for you, at once. Martha and I are very happy, and if all the news
     we hear is true, I expect you to be living by the factory bell when
     we get home. Dear, good John, we love you and think of you and talk
     of you all the day long.
     JANE.
Jane's letters came constantly and they gave to this period of getting
ready for work again a sense of great elation. If a man only passed John
on the hill or in the corridors of the mill during these days, he caught
spirit and energy and hope from his up-head and happy face and firm
step. At the beginning of May the poor women had commenced with woeful
hearts to clean their denuded houses, and make them as homelike as they
could; and before May was half over, peace was won and there were
hundreds of cotton ships upon the Atlantic.
John's finished goods were all now in Manchester warehouses, and
Greenwood was watching the arrival of cotton and its prices in
Liverpool. John had very little money--none in fact that he could use
for cotton, but he confidently expected it, though ignorant of any
certain cause for expectation.
As he was eating dinner with his mother one day, she said, "Whatever
have you sent Greenwood to Liverpool for?"
"To buy any cotton he can."
"But you have no money."
"Simpson and Hager paid me at once for the calicoes I sent them. I shall
be getting money every day now."
"Enough?"
"I shall have enough--some way or other--no fear."
"I'll tell you what, John. I can lend you twenty thousand pounds. I'll
be glad to do it."
"O mother! Mother! That will be very salvation to me. How good you are!
How good you are!" and there was a tone in John's voice that was perhaps
entirely fresh and new. It went straight to his mother's heart, and she
continued, "I'll give you a check in the morning, John. You are varry,
varry welcome, my dear lad."
"How can you spare me so much?"
"Well, I've been saving a bit here and there and now and then for thirty
years, and with interest coming and coming, a little soon counts up.
Why, John, I must have been saving for this very strait all these years.
Now, the silent money will talk and the idle money roll here and there,
making more. That is what money is cut round for--I expect."
"Mother, this is one of the happiest hours in my life. I was carrying a
big burden of anxiety."
"Thou need not have carried it an hour; thou might hev known that God
and thy mother would be sufficient."
The next morning John went down the hill with a check for twenty
thousand pounds in his pocket and a prayer of rest in his heart and a
bubbling song on his lips. And all my readers must have noticed that
good fortune as well as misfortune has a way of coming in company. There
is a tendency in both to pour if they rain, and that day John had
another large remittance from a Manchester house and the second mail
brought him a letter which was as great a surprise as his mother's loan.
It was from Lord Harlow and read as follows:
     JOHN HATTON, MY GOOD FRIEND,
     I must write you about three things that call for recognition from
     me. The first is that I am forever your debtor for the fresh
     delightful company of your little daughter. I have become a new man
     in her company. She has lifted a great burden from my heart and
     taught me many things. In my case it has been out of the mouths of
     babes I have heard wisdom. My second reason for gratitude to you is
     the noble and humane manner in which you have taken the loss and
     privations this war entailed. The name of Hatton has been thrice
     honored by your bearing of it and I count my niece the most
     fortunate of women to be your wife. She and Martha have in a large
     measure helped to console me for the loss of my dear son. The third
     call for recognition is, that I owe you some tangible proof of my
     gratitude. Now I have a little money lying idle or nearly so, and
     if you can spend it in buying cotton, I do not know of any better
     use it can be put to. I am sending in this a check on Coutts' Bank
     for ten thousand pounds. If it will help you a little, you will do
     me a great favor by setting poor men and women to work with it. I
     heard dear little Martha reading her Bible lesson to her mother
     this morning. It was about the man who folded his talent in a
     napkin and did nothing with it. Take my offer, John, and help me to
     put my money to use, so that the Master may receive His own with
     usury, when he calls for it.
     Yours in heart and soul,
     HARLOW.
John answered this letter in person. He ran down to London by a night
train and spent a day with Jane and Martha and his uncle and aunt. It
was such a happy day that it would hardly have been possible to have
duplicated it, and John was wise to carry it back to Hatton untouched by
thought or word, by look or act which could in any way shadow its
perfection. He had longed to take his wife and child back to Hatton with
him, but Lady Trelawney was to give a children's May garden-party on
the eighteenth of May and Martha had been chosen queen of the May, and
when her father saw her in the dress prepared for the occasion and
witnessed her enthusiasm about the ceremony and the crowning of herself
queen, he put down all his personal desires and gave a ready consent to
her stay in London until the pageant was over. Then Jane dressed her in
the lace and satin of her coronation robe, with its spangled train of
tulle, put on her bright brown hair the little crown of shining gilt and
mock jewels, put in her hand the childish scepter and brought her into
the drawing-room and bade all make obeisance to her. And the child
played her part with such a sweet and noble seriousness that everyone
present wondered at her dignity and grace, and John's eyes were full as
his heart and the words were yet unknown to human tongues that could
express his deep love and emotion. Perhaps Lord Harlow made the best and
truest of commentaries when he said,
"My dear friends, let us be thankful that we have yet hearts so
childlike as to be capable of enjoying this simple pleasure; for we are
told that unless we become as little children, we are not fit for the
kingdom of heaven."
The next day soon after noon John was in his factory, but the image of
his child still lived in his eyes. His vision was everywhere obstructed
by looms and belts and swirling bands, but in front of them there was a
silvery light and in its soft glow he saw--he saw clearly--the image of
the lovely May Queen in her glimmering dress of shining white with the
little gilt crown on her long brown hair. Nor could he dismiss this
phantom until he went up to Hatton Hall and described her fairy Majesty
to his mother.
"And when are they coming home, John?" asked Mrs. Hatton. "Jane's house
is as fine as if it was new and Martha's governess is wearying for her.
Martha ought to be at her lessons now. Her holiday is over by all
rights."
"The festival will be on the twenty-eighth, and they will come on the
thirtieth if the weather be fine."
"What has the weather to do with it?"
"Well, Jane does not like to travel in wet weather. It drabbles her
skirts and depresses her spirits--always."
"Dear me! It is a pity she can't order the weather she prefers. I was
taught when a year or two younger than Martha six lines that my mother
bid me remember as long as I lived. I have not forgot to mind them yet."
"Why didn't you teach them to me?"
"You never feared rain--quite the other way."
"Tell them to me now, mother. It is your duty, you know," and John
laughed and bent forward and took in his large brown hand the plump,
small, white one she put out to meet his.
"Well then, listen John, and see thou mind them:
    "The rain has spoiled the farmer's day,
    Shall weather put my work away?
      Thereby are two days lost.
    Nature shall mind her own affairs,
    I will attend my proper cares,
      In rain or sun or frost."
And the days went busily forward and John though he counted off day by
day was happy. Every loom he had was busy overtime. His manufactured
goods, woven in such stress and sorrow, were selling well, his cotton
sheds were filling rapidly. Men and women were beginning to sing at
their work again, for as one result of the day John spent with Harlow,
his lordship had opened a plain, good, and very cheap furniture store,
where the workers in cotton factories could renew on easy installments
the furniture they had sold for a mouthful of bread. It was known only
as "The Hatton Furniture Store" and John Hatton, while denying any share
in its business, stood as guarantee for its honesty, and no one was
afraid to open an account there. It really seemed as if Hatton village
had never before been so busy, so hopeful, and so full of life. The
factory bell had never sounded so cheerful. The various societies and
civic brotherhood meetings never had been so crowded and so cordial. Old
quarrels and grudges had died out and had been forgotten forever while
men and women broke their last crust of bread together or perhaps
clemmed themselves to help feed the children of the very man that had
wronged them. Consequent on these pleasant surroundings, Hatton Chapel
was crowded, the singing-pew held the finest voices in the countryside,
and there was such a renewal of religious interest that Greenwood chose
the most jubilant hymn tunes he could find in all Methodist Psalmody.
Then suddenly in spite of all these pleasant happenings strange
misgivings began to mix with John's days and cross and darken his hours
of rest. Every morning he got his London letter, always full of love and
satisfactions, yet uncalled-for and very unlikely apprehensions came
into his thoughts and had power to shake his soul as they passed. He was
angry at himself. He called himself ungrateful to God who had so
wonderfully helped him. He prayed earnestly for a thankful, joyful
spirit, and he assumed the virtue of cheerfulness though he was far from
feeling it. But he said nothing of this delusive temper to his mother.
He was in reality ashamed of his depression, for he knew
    Love that is true must hush itself,
      Nor pain by its useless cry;
    For the young don't care, and the old must bear,
      And Time goes by--goes by.
One morning John said to his mother, "Today Martha is queen of the May.
Tomorrow they will pack, and do their last shopping and on Friday
afternoon they promise to be home. The maids and men will be all in
their places by tonight, and I think Jane will be pleased with the
changes I have made."
"She ought to be, but ought often stands for nothing. It cost thee a
goodish bit when thou hedn't much to count on."
"Not so much, mother--some paint and paper and yards of creton."
"And new white curtains 'upstairs and downstairs and in my lady's
chamber.' Add to that men's and women's wage; and add to that, the love
that could neither be bought nor sold."
"She is worth it all many times over."
"Happen she may be. Her aunt has had a heartbreaking lesson. She may say
a few words to unsay words that she never should have spoken."
"I shall be thinking of Martha all day. I hope she will keep her
confidence."
"What art thou talking about? Martha will do herself no injustice. It
isn't likely. What is the matter with thee, John? Thou art as
down-hearted as if all had gone wrong instead of right. O thou of little
faith!"
"I know and I am sorry and ashamed, mother."
The next morning John had a charming letter from Jane. Martha had done
wonderfully. She had played her part to perfection and there were only
exclamations of delight at the airy, fairy cleverness of her conceptions
of mimic royalty. Jane said the illustrated papers had all taken
Martha's picture, and in fact the May Day Dream had been an
unqualified, delightful success. "And the praise is all given to Martha,
John. I shall have her likeness taken today as she appeared surrounded
by her ladies. We shall surely see you at home on Friday."
John was so immensely proud of this news, that he went up the hill
earlier than usual in order to give it to his mother. And her attitude
disappointed him. She was singularly indifferent, he thought, and
answered his excited narrative by a fervent wish that they "were safely
back at Hatton." He wondered a little but let the circumstance pass.
"She has been worried about some household misdoing," he thought, and he
tried during their dinner together to lead her back to her usual homely,
frank cheerfulness. He only very partially succeeded, so 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."