But the bells would cry her trouble to the villagers also, and
she could not let them hear. So she played soft melodies of
trust and hope and patience, until her father came to find her, and
linking his arm in hers walked back with her through the moonlight, not
asking anything, only seeming to understand her mood. He was that way
always. He could understand without being told. Somehow she felt it and
was comforted. He was that way with everybody. It was what made him so
beloved in his parish, which comprised the whole Valley, that and his
great sincerity and courage. But always his sense of understanding
seemed keenest with this flower-faced girl of his. He seemed to have
gone ahead of her way always to see that all was right--or wrong--and
then walked with her to be sure she did not stumble or miss her way. He
never attempted to reason her out of herself, nor to minimize her
trials, but was just there, a strong hold when she needed it. She
looked up with a smile and slipped her hand in his. She understood his
perfect sympathy, as if his own past youth were touching hers and
making her know that whatever it was she had to face she would come
through. He was like a symbol of God's strength to her. Somehow the
weight was lifted from her heart. They lingered on the piazza together
in the moonlight a few minutes, speaking quietly of the morrow and its
duties, then they went into the wide pleasant living room, and sat
down, mother and daughter near together, while the father read a
portion: "He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High
shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
"I will say of the Lord, he is my refuge and my fortress:
my God; in him will I trust.
"Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the
fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.
"He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his
wings shalt thou trust."