empty-handed on the wool at her brother's feet, and Wingfold, taking
a book from his pocket, withdrew to the trees.

He had not read long, sitting within sight and call of the group,
when Helen came to him.

"He seems inclined to go to sleep," she said. "Perhaps if you would
read something, it would send him off."

"I will with pleasure," he said, and returning with her, sat down on
the grass.

"May I read you a few verses I came upon the other day, Leopold?" he
asked.

"Please do," answered the invalid, rather sleepily.

I will not pledge myself that the verses belonged to the book
Wingfold held before him, but here they are. He read them slowly,
and as evenly and softly and rhythmically as he could.

They come to thee, the halt, the maimed, the blind,
The devil-torn, the sick, the sore;
Thy heart their well of life they find,
Thine ear their open door.

Ah! who can tell the joy in Palestine--
What smiles and tears of rescued throngs!
Their lees of life were turned to wine,
Their prayers to shouts and songs!