Once more we heard Bruno's delicate little voice alone:
"Say whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,
Like a picture so fair to the sight?
That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,
Till the little lambs leap with delight?"
And again uprose that silvery voice, whose angelic sweetness I could hardly bear:
"'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,
Though 'tis sung, by the angels above,
In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear—
And the name of the secret is Love!"
And then Bruno joined in again with
"For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!"
"That are pretty!" the little fellow exclaimed, as the children passed usso closely that we drew back a little to make room for them, and it seemed we had only to reach out a hand to touch them: but this we did not attempt.
