Such an one could not be wholly unhappy.

Being made for others more than for herself, she had something of the divine gift of self-forgetfulness.
As she sat there, her eyes ever watching the river as though for some one she expected, there came from the garden beneath the sound of singing.

It was not loud, but deep and strong: "As the wave to the shore, as the dew to the leaf, As the breeze to the flower, As the scent of a rose to the heart of a child, 343 As the rain to the dusty land-- My heart goeth out unto Thee--unto Thee! The night is far spent and the day is at hand.
"As the song of a bird to the call of a star, As the sun to the eye, As the anvil of man to the hammers of God, As the snow to the north Is my word unto Thy word--to Thy word! The night is far spent and the day is at hand." It was Morris who was singing.

With growth of years had come increase of piety, and it was his custom once a week to gather about him such of the servants as would for the reading of Scripture.
To Jessica the song had no religious significance.

By the time it had passed through the atmosphere of memory and meditation, it carried a different meaning.