as he crossed the lonely moor he was singing his favorite hymn for company:
"Though trouble springs not from the dust.
Nor sorrow from the ground.
Yet ills on ills, by Heaven's decree,
In man's estate are found.
"As sparks in close succession rise,
So man, the child of woe,
Is doomed to endless cares and toils
Through all his life below.
"But with my God I leave my cause.
From Him I seek relief;
To Him, in confidence of prayer.
Unbosom all my grief.
"Unnumbered are His wondrous works.
Unsearchable His ways;
'Tis His the mourning soul to cheer.
The bowed-down to raise."
He went over and over the verses, trying to make them fit, first to one tune he liked, and then another. Not far from Aske Hall, he saw two men leap over the wall and disappear. He called to them to come and clean the balled snow out of his horses feet, but they paid no attention to his request. The circumstance, though a trivial one, impressed him unpleasantly. The spirit of song was gone, he was suddenly
