“I will come down in half an hour, John.”

“Then I will come and help you.”

And in half an hour this craver after some hope and comfort went down, and then John renewed the conversation which was on the apparent cruelty of children being born to live a short time and then leave Earth by the inscrutable gate of Death.

“It seems to be so needless, so useless,” said Jane.

“Not so,” the curate answered.  “Let me repeat two verses of an ancient Syrian hymn, written A.D. 90, and you will learn what the earliest Fathers of the Church thought of the death of little children.

    “The Just One saw that iniquity increased on earth,
    And that sin had dominion over all men,
    And He sent His Messengers, and removed
    A multitude of fair little ones,
    And called them to the pavilion of happiness.

    “Like lilies taken from the wilderness,
    Children are planted in Paradise;
    And like pearls in diadems,
    Children are inserted in the Kingdom;
    And without ceasing, shall hymn forth his praise.”

“Will you give me a copy of those verses?” asked Jane with great emotion.

“I will.  You see a little clearer now?”

“Yes.”

“And the glory and the safety for the child?  Do you understand?”

“I think I do.”

“Then give thanks and not tears because the King desired your child, for this message came forth from Him in whom we live and move and have our being:  ’Come up hither, and dwell in the House of the Lord forever.  The days of thy life have been sufficient.  The bands of suffering are loosed.  Thy Redeemer hath brought thee a release.’  So she went forth unto her Maker.  She attained unto the beginning of Peace.  She departed to the habitations of just men made perfect, to the communion of saints, to the life everlasting.”

In such conversation the evening passed and all present were somewhat comforted, yet it was only alleviation; for comfort to be lasting, must be in a great measure self-evolved, must spring from our own convictions, our own assurance and sense of absolute love and justice.

However, every sorrow has its horizon and none are illimitable.  The factory bell rang clearly the next morning, and the powerful call of duty made John answer it.  God had given, and God had taken his only child, but the children of hundreds of families looked to the factory for their daily bread.  Yea, and he did not forget the contract with God and his father which bound him to the poor and needy and which any neglect of business might imperil.  He lifted his work willingly and cheerfully, for work is the oldest gospel God gave to man.  It is good tidings that never fail.  It is the surest earthly balm for every grief and whatever John Hatton was in his home life and in his secret hours, he was diligent in business, serving God with a fervent, cheerful spirit.  In the mill he never named his loss but once, and that was on the morning of his return to business.  Greenwood then made some remark about the dead child, and John answered,