The words brought no comfort. “‘To live is Christ,’” repeated the sick one musingly.  “If that were so—?” she was silent for a few moments, and then broke out hopelessly:  “No, no!  To live has not been Christ!  It has been myself, and you all, and these things!  It is not gain to die!  It is loss!—­loss!—­loss of everything I know!”

Her voice rose excitedly, and her glistening fevered eyes looked about restlessly.  Winifred feared that the nurse would come, and finding her worse, end the interview.  So she prayed that God would calm the dear patient and give them both His needed grace for the hour.  And He heard.

“Let me straighten your pillow, mother dear,” she said, and suited the action to the word.  Her mother clasped the deft hands that arranged things so comfortably, and looked long with yearning fondness into her daughter’s face.

“Winnie,” she said finally, “could you sing just a little for me?”

Winifred choked back a sob that tried to escape.  “I will try,” she said.

She brought a little stringed instrument that her mother loved, with which she sometimes accompanied her songs.

“What shall I sing?” she asked, seating herself beside the bed.

“I don’t know,” hesitated her mother.

“Would you like that little Scotch song from Sankey’s book?”

“Oh, yes.  That is very sweet.”

So Winifred began the plaintive words: 

  “I am far frae my hame, an’ I’m weary aftenwhiles
  For the langed-for hame bringin’ an’ my Faither’s welcome
smiles.”

She began with a stern watch upon her own emotions.  But, as she proceeded, from the sadness of the hour rose a longing in her soul for the “ain countrie” where no blight of death and tears are known, and it poured itself out in the song.  She sang two of the long stanzas.

  “I’ve His guid word o’ promise that some gladsome day the King
  To His ain royal palace His banished hame will bring. 
  Wi’ heart and wi’ een rinnin’ ower we shall see
  The King in a’ His beauty in oor ain countrie. 
  Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
  I wad fain be agangin’ noo unto my Saviour’s breast;
  For He gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me,
  An’ carries them Himself to His ain countrie.”

Mrs. Gray had been lying with closed eyes through which the tears forced their way.  Now she interrupted: 

“What does it say, Winifred?  ‘He gathers in His bosom?’ Please sing those lines again.”

So Winifred repeated: 

  “’For He gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me,
  And carries them Himsel’ to His ain countrie.’”

“Thank you!” murmured the invalid with a sigh.  “Is it true, Winnie?”

“Yes, mother, it is quite true.”

“That is what—­I have been.”  She was speaking again with difficulty, and her voice was very low, so that Winifred leaned forward to listen.  “I’ve been—­a ‘witless, worthless lamb!’ Will He—­gather—­me?”