That Still, Small Voice

M. W. Hives

Jacob Morgan paused and clutched at my arm. "I fell a trifle dizzy, man," he said; "the heat of the sun is like to shrivel me up. Rest I must have and where better to rescucitate my failing limbs than in the shelter of Glynis Parry's cottage yonder."

I knocked at the weather-beaten door and Mrs Parry opened it and listened as I explained.

"Come in you. Come in and welcome. Poor old Jacob that has never missed a Sunday chapel. Bring him in and put him on the sofa."

Jacob lowered himself on to the horse-hair sofa and within a couple of minutes Mrs Parry had her four daughters and two neighbours in enthusiastic consultation.

"A damp cloth around his head," said one. "That is the remedy. For look you how his face is all fired up."

"No, water it is he lacks," cried another. "Bring you a glass and let our Megan race to the chemist for bicarbonate."

"The poor man by rights should be in bed," advised another. "I tell you his looks have not the healthy bloom, as I should know, having buried two and sat with more than I can tell."

"Let us try a little sulphur; his blood it is that heats and races too fast for his poor brain. Look you there is still some liquorice in the cupboard that has not been used for long enough."

Then spoke Dilys Parry in a moment of comparative silence; a shy, young thing, but with all her wits about her. "There is still a little Brandy in the bottle, mother, she whispered. "maybe a little drop will help the poor old man."

But her voice was lost in the dreadful babble that broke out with renewed vigour and filled the tiny room with lilting accents. Jacob Morgan heard that whisper, though, and, raising a knarled hand he spoke with resonant authority.

"Quiet you," he commanded. "Quiet all of you and let young Dilys speak again."

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