A Mistletoe Fairy: A Story of Christmas Eve.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue XXVI, 29 December 1900, Page 1210

A Mistletoe Fairy: A Story of Christmas Eve.

By

FERGUS HUME.

Author of ‘'The Mystery of a Hansom Cab.” Etc.

(All Rights Rkskrvhd.)

Squire Amyot. was not a miser, though there were many who said he was. Be was something of a hermit, it is true, and his mode of life was nothing if not economic. But he was indifferent utterly to the world, and what it said of him; so that it is not difficult to understand how the spiteful tongues were set a-wagging. There was no ostensible crime with which to brand the man. so they perforce fell back upon the charge of avarice. They knew not that the misanthrope is not of necessity penurious; because he is a misanthrope. And they seemed oblivious to the fact that an unsuspecting credulous nature can be so crushed, so deceived, so grievously wounded, as to recoil within itself to excess and shrink from any contact with the world. And this indeed was what had happened to Gilbert Amyot.

He was a reeluse in every sense of the word—and as ascetic too as any monk of the Thebaid. So far as his experience went this world was full of scoundrels, traitors, seekers after self. And he had done with it. He had never married for the good reason that the one woman he had chosen for his own had jilted him. She had preferred a wealthier suitor. And he had not felt inelined to try again. For thirty years he had sought for one honest man. for one truthful heart. But his seal ch had been in vain. And so he had retired to his own domain, far away from the hollow. noisy. strenuous world. And here at least he was able to avoid association with the seekers after self whom he abhorred. And here he was still this snowy December. The Hall was three miles distant from any human habitation. For that alone he loved it. It was a quaint Tudor building of grey stone, richly ornate, and ivy clothed. There it lavin the heart of the great woods, for all the world like the palace of some Sleeping Beauty. When you emerged from the woods you came on the wide moors, so desolate. But the trees were all round the house, and the wintry wind whistled through them now. For many days the snow had fallen fast and thick, and the ground was masked as with a white coverlet. This was the seventieth Christmas of Gilbert Amyot. and it found him the true misanthrope and introspective egotist.

One servant only did he kee|> —they urged it as further proof that he was a miser—and she an old dame of sixty years. They called her Granny Jee. She came from the three mile distant hamlet of Saxton. Her history was a simple one of hardship and unceasing toil. Her husband was long since dead. But she had one son. He was a elerk in London. She had always dreaded lest she should come at last to the workhouse. And so when she had heard that Squire Amyot's housekeeper had died she had lost no time but had tramped out to the Hall in quest, of her post. Perhaps because she was an excellent cook, or because she was alone in the world, or lieeanse she was as fond of her own fireside as any cat—or perhaps for all these reasons. Amyot had taken her in. and the countryside had not been a little surprised there at. All this had happened fifteen years ago. and Granny Jee was still at the Hall. She occupied a small bedchamber in the rear of the house, and was but little seen. And the Squire came more nearly to trusting her completely than he had thought possible. On her part the old dame worried him not at all; and he took but small account of her. Now none of the county neighbours ever called on Squire Amyot. The

most frequent visitors to the Hall were of the genus vagrant; and with them did Granny Jee deal after her own way. Assuredly they came, as well she knew, for no good purpose. For there were rumours of immeasurable wealth stored therein. Yet in truth it was that although Amyot spent but small portion of his income his surplus funds were straightway well invested, and of actual money he had but little in the house. It is true there were both gold and silver plate, but these were seldom, if ever, taken from the strong room. He used to spread them out there sometimes. and examine them piece by piece in the light of a powerful lamp, and think how beautiful they were. And it may be that Granny Jee had seen the treasure thus exposed, and babbled not wisely but too well of all its splendours on those rare occasions when she visited her home. But be that as it may. Amyot Hall was commonly, reported to contain the treasures of Peru. And so it was that a strange episode befell on this particular Christmas Eve.

On the morning of that day Granny Jee. in a great state of perturbation, made her appearance in the room which her master reserved wholly to himself. It was a large apartment this, with three windows looking out on to the terrace, and facing the tangled coppice which encroached nigh up to the house. The walls were lined with oak and draped with hangings of red velvet faded now beyond recognition of their pristine shade. Where there were no hangings there were books—many of them. The Squire ate and slept here: indeed, the Squire lived here. His bedstead—a quite unpretentious one of iron—was concealed from view by a screen. It stood in one corner of the room. The table whereon he took his meals stood in another: and. a large desk occupied the centre. It was littered with papers in disorder. He toiled far inro the night at this desk; for he was in the throes of a work on the Empire of Islam. Religious and Political: perhaps by way of reducing the rigours of his seclusion. But he was fascinated by and engrossed in his subject, and often he would find the days evaporate “like ice in the sunlight.” That was his way of putting it, because he remembered the phrase of Balzac. . And so it was with fear and trembling that Granny Jee intruded on this day before Christmas upon the seclusion of her master, for she knew so well how impatient he was of interruption. She saw no reason to hope that he would be less so now than usually.

She stepped timidly round to the corner of his desk. He looked up fiercely, keeping one finger to mark the page of the book he was reading. For the moment he held the woman in the fascination of his gaze. How strangely contrasted these two aged people! Granny Jee was so voumr looking for her age. She had no wrinkles to speak of. and her complexion was almost an anachronism, so pink it was and so smooth. Tt compared oddly with the whiteness of her hair. But Granny Jee had never taxed her brain, and it had reciprocated her kind use of it by inflicting nothing approaching physical ravage upon her. To do honour to this visit she had assumed her very ancient gown of hard black silk and her muslin fichu, too—rot forgetting the mittens for her hands. She looked so dignified and comely. You could quite believe it true what they said—that Granny Jee find good blood in her veins. Amyot even thought as much. Now the Squire looked for all the world like a magician of mediaeval times His skin was like parchment.

Many, many wrinkles were there, but oh, so line as to be almost imperceptible. His forehead was high and bald.

His nose was as the beak of a hawk. His hair was as of silver where it fringed his temples, and at the back of his head. His beard was white and long. He was hoary with age—dignified and stately of mien. He wore a skull cap of black velvet, and a black velvet dressing-gown, too, girdled at the waist. You would have said he was some astrologer—a doer of dark deers in the dark ages. What a fitting occupant for the lugubrious room: He spoke to the woman. “What do you want, Mrs Jee?” Granny Jee dropped a courtesy. “Oh, if you please, sir, to-morrow’s Christmas Day.” . “Well. well, then to-night’s Christmas Eve—the almanac has clearly told me that —what of it?” “If you please, sir, I wish to go to Saxton to-day and return to-morrow.” “Oh, indeed —to put it shortly, you wish to spend the night away. W’hy, pray ?” Granny Jee grew more ill at ease. Her master had such a peculiar way of putting things. . “I am growing old, sir—old, indeed. And I have not spent a Christmas at home for these many years, and I should like to see the mummers and hear the carols. Many a merry time had I there in my young days—dead and gone now, deary me —dead and gone!” “Indeed, indeed—so you want to go a-junketing at your age, do you?” “Oh, sir: why not. sir? Dees it not do good to the old to watch the sports of the young? I feel Ido -want to spend one more Christmas at Saxton before I die. sir.” “H’m.” And Squire Amyot raked his beard with his lean, long finger. He always did that in moments of hesitanev or deliberation. , “And what about my food, pray?” he asked.

“Well, there’s cold victuals for today, sir, and I’ll be back in time to get vour breakfast, sir.” “So far as that goes, I am content. But I am not quite certain in my own mind. I may tell you, Mrs Jee, that this desire for participation in the revels of youth is your real reason for going.” Now Granny Jee trembled and turned pale. “Oh. sir, why should you th nk so' “Because I am suspicious, Mrs Jee. Because the world has made me doubt everyone —trust no one. And I have observed for the last week or so that vou have not been quite yourself—no, not quite yourself.” . „ “I hope I have done my best, sit. “Oh. you have earned your money as usual.' if that’s what you mean. But vou evade my suggestion, Mrs Jee. That of itself does not reassure me. About a week ago I observed you in conversation with a tramp at the back of the house—yes. a tramp. Now, don’t weep, Mrs Jee. but listen to what 1 have to say to you. He was a black-bearded skeleton of a man. this. I saw you in tears then, as I see you m tears ‘now. I noticed also that he went away with a goodly supply of food. ~ ciszs “Sir. 1 will be plain wifh you. She smoothed her apron, and seemed as though making an effort to overcome herself. “The man. sir, was a clerk from London. He was in the same, office as my son. sir: and knowing from him that I was here, he came to tell me. sir”—she burst out anew—“to tell me. sir. that both ne and my son had been turned away. “Indeed, and for what rascality wei e thev turned away?’ “Oh for none, sir. believe me, sir, for none. Business was bad and some of them were dismissed; they amongst 'the number. The roan was starving, sir. and for all I know, my son may be in the same plight. God help him. If vou remember, sir. I have been over to Saxton once or twice lately. It was to send money to my poor child. “H’m Very creditable of you. lam sure. Well. Mrs Jee, your explanation for the time being is satisfactory. But understand, please he must not. come here again. Any tramps loite.ing about the premises I shall have locked up. As you know, there are articles of great value here—they might be stolen, Mrs Jee. “Sir, if you suspect me “Now that is quite enough. luo

not suspect you. If I did you would not remain here. You can go to Sax-

ton and return in the morning.” “Thank you. sir. thank you. And, sir, if you please, the carol singers were wanting to come around tonight.” “Very good of them, I’m sure. But I detest music of that order.”

“I merely mentioned it. sir: just to show that you would not be quite a ] O ne—for ‘it is lonely here. God knows.” “Yes. quite right. God knows, and Knowing. God protects me. You may spare me the usual platitudes. I have an excellent revolver, and if your singers or anyone else comes here under the plea of roaring their carols, they shall taste of its quality, I promise you. You can go, Mrs Jee.” Mrs Jee went, dropping a courtesy as she had done when fffie entered. “A hard man, a hard man.” she murmured, “never an offer of help for my poor son in his need. Ah, God. this is like to be a bitter, bitter Christmas for me.”

As she was leaving the room Gilbert Amyot divined what was passing through her mind: was he a hard roan? He thought he might safely answer “no.” To the world at large, yes. he was hard, and rightly so. he held. But he believed in God, and he knew how to do good in secret. How distressed the old woman had been about her son. He felt sorry for her. He would do something to help her. No doubt her story of the tramp was quite true. He was a clerk, and he was a tramp, and he had been telling her how they had been dismissed in his office. Only he went just a little further, since he had levelled something more than a glance at the two of them. He was sure from what he had seen that this man was the son of Granny. “Poor old thing; she goes to Saxton not to send him money, but to give it to him. Well. I Should not grudge her that pleasure even though he —as he surely will—prove ungrateful. What base ingratitude there is in the world —worst of all ingrat'tude from son to parent! I’erhaps the fellow was dishonest —more likely than not! Oh, but I must help him—'for old Granny’s sake I must he’p him. I suppose 1 could not have a more fitting time than this. In one respect at least I must be seasonable. I will be seasonable.”

And so he thought on. All that day the old woman kept away from her master. His meals were served and removed as by invisible hands. Only at the fall of dusk did he-see her again. Then she told him she was ready to go. He assented. He did not even raise his eyes from the page which held them. “I’ll expect you in the morning to serve my breakfast.” that was all he said.

Away on the frozen snow trudged the old woman, her skirt kilted up. How cold it was—but not, so cold as he. How hard his heart! 'How cruel! That was what so many said of Gilbert Amyot. With the darkness came more snow. The Squire looked out and saw the white flakes falling, in the blackness of the night. He must make himself comfortable, he thought. Such a night it was. So he closed the shutter. and poked the fire into a right royal blaze. Then he partook of the frugal meal laid for him by Mrs. Jee. Perhaps an extra glass of port would not be amiss, as it was Christmas eve. A pipe, too. was comforting, so he chose the one he liked the best and tilled it. How good a friend tobacco to solitary man! Let the snow fall, let the wind howl, let the thermometer run down into its very bulb. How snug it was in here. Christmas Eve. yes another Christmas Eve had come. Of course it had come —that was quite natural. And he was here in the old hall alone —more alone than ever on this night. But then he was always least alone when by himself. Why did retrospection force itself upon him? He found no pleasure in it —Childe Roland had not found less. Yet his thoughts would go back and back and back. The old times when he had mingled with his fellows were not pleasant to recall. By a woman scorned, by his so-called friends betrayed. How bitter it was to think of all that. Positively he could not recall one human being who had not been given over to self. Self, self, self that was what everyone of them lived for. Peace on earth and good-

will to man forsooth! What a farce! As he thought of these things the very wine lost its taste —even the tobacco. His memories were all un-

pleasant —all. all quite cheerless. The fire roared up the chimney, and the logs splintered and burst into sparks, and outside the snow still fell in a never ending blinding veil. Ten o’clock already! In. a couple of hours thev would set the bells a ringing, in token of the birth of Christ. And

there would be Judas kisses, and vaun- , ted friendship, and expressions of sin- ( cere goodwill, and well-wishing, and underneath all would be hollow, rotten, faithless. Oh, for one righteous man uncorroded by the acid of self. May Christ, who was born this night, have mercy on mankind of His creation! He grew weary. There were yet two hours before he would seek rest. It occurred to him to visit the strong room. Why, he did not know. He could have assigned no reason for the impulse. But he obeyed it. He took up a hand lamp, and he walked through the long passage chilled by the icv breath of the night. The house was large and still and dark. There was no sign of life, all the rooms were closed up—given over to dust and silence. There were the portraits of his ancestors looking down upon him from the walls. He wondered, had thev felt as bitterly as he? Ihe echo of' his foot tread on the floor rang oh. so hollow. The place was as full of strange noises as a seashell. He unlocked the door of the strong room, and left it open while he lighted the lamps. They were fixed to the walls many of them. The place blazed now like a shrine. He was glad he had had them put there The walls and floor were of stone, so was the roof, which was arched Ther* was a screen before the door to keep awav the strong draught from the n-issage The iron boxes were all there ? safe enough. He opened them. What beautiful things were in them plates and cups and vases and tra. all of gold and silver. How exquisite thev looked with the strong light playing on them, especially that chased chalice in gold, the ” some Spanish galleon. It had com down to him from an Elizabethan ancestor. And that ornate silver tray, too. so wonderfully wrought inmyth, ological design by the master hand of Cellini. He set up the loving cups, h set up the vases of silver, the gorgemis centre pieces, the table ornaments Oh. what a number there were ; ' Then came forks and spoons and knives and dishes, all in silverand riehlv gilt. They were very beautiful. 2e could imagine what a miser would have felt at the sight of such a hoard. Thank God. he was no j( j “Dross, dross—mere dross. he sat ■iloud “And the whole of it not wort i o ? honest heart. Yet how many souls would it not buy. What a bad for

Satan to angle with!” m-eath He stopped. He held his breath. Surelv that was a footstep: and no stealthy one either. Not that o . thief. On. on. pattering along toward the strong room it came. It was quite light hearted. What on earth was it: He would not confess to feai. but stinctively his hand went to the revolver in his pocket. He felt a c run through him. and he seemed to realise more than ever his age He was old: old and alone, no match for any able-bodied man. No soul won d hear him call. Yet he smiled grimly and held his weapon the tighter. He would shoot down the foremose of them if there were more than one. He had removed the screen so that the light shot out into the darkness of the passage. He waited. Still the same sound: such a light, little step it was. Again he waited. Then quite a small white figure came into the radiance. “A child—a child.” he gasped. And so it was a child—a tiny little girl of not more than 5 years. There she stood, blinking her blue eyes in the light before him. Snell big eyes thev were and so blue—he could see that even by this light—and curly hair of golden glint and a sweet little button of a moot pursed up ever so gravel v. A little Christmas angel truly in the whitest of white frocks, and daintiest of shoes, and round her waist were wreaths of mistletoe, and in her hand a branch of it, all berHe stared, he could not speak. Whence came she? From the skies? He sat down, and 10. she pattered up

to his knee and placed her tiny hand in his, and looked up at him oh, so wistfully. “I'se Dolly: who’s you?" "Dear little girl, who are you; where do you come from, who is with you. ehiki?” “Old ’ooman don away. Dolly’s a fairv. Take Dolly up." He lifted her on his knee. She seemed quite warm. She must have hail a cloak around her outside.

Someone must have brought her into the passage. How strange it all was! And why was she decked out so with mistletoe? He could learn nothing from her. But she seemed fascinated with the glitter of the things around. In her delight she clapped her hands. Again and again she clapped them. “How pitty—oh. how pitty. Do div Dolly someting—some Ickle ting to pay wif.” He handed her a silver cup, quite a small one. Could it be Mrs Jee the child meant? If so it must be she who had brought her into the house. What if she were lurking round now in watch for the success of her trick. But why, why—where was the reason of it all? He determined to search. “Will Dolly stay here and play with the pretty things.” he said. What a sweetly, pretty child she was.

“Ess, ess.” She was not the least bit afraid. “Dolly pay all by sef-sef. Dolly dood. ’As oo dot sweety-one for Dolly?” “I’ll bring you one, dear child.” He took a lamp and went. off. What could it mean? He still held the revolver tight in one hand. It was best, he thought, to be prepared for any emergency. Right into the back of the house he went and searched and searched. But not a trace of Mrs Jee or anybody. All was safe. The windows were barred. The door was locked. Nothing could be seen, nothing heard—nothing save the wuthering of the wind round the house and the gentle fall of the flakes as they were drifted on to the panes. He went back to the child. As he passed by the door of his own room the clock there struck eleven. He found Dolly still entranced, and so merry. Evidently the child had had some sleep before she came. For she seemed very wide awake. He felt helpless and perplexed. What was he to do with her? Then his eye caught a piece of paper pinned to her dress. It had fluttered loose. There was writing on it. He picked it up and read:

“Sir, you will be robbed this night. Your only chance of safety lies with the child. Keep her in the strong room. Watch there at half-past eleven.”

He did not recognise the writing. Could it be a plot —a plot to murder him! No, it was from a friend. He felt sure of it, suspicious as he was. Then an idea came to him; it grew. He began to understand. Yes, the presence of this dear child would be his best protection—his only safeguard. His mind was made up. He replaced the screen, and took her on his knee.”

"Dear child,” he said, slowly. “J, want you to listen to me. “Say this after me—say, ’God sees you.’ ” "Dod sees' oo.” She looked shyly now from under her mistletoe crown. "Say it again, dear, ‘God sees-you.’ ” "Dod sees ’oo.” "That’s right, Dolly. Do you think you can remember that? Now you are going to be a good-little girl, and sit Tn this chair. " And by-and-by a big man will come in at that door, and then you will say to him, ’God sees vou.’ You understand, dear?” "Ess. Dod sees ’oo.” She was quite serious. Then it seemed to strike her it was a new game, and she laughed: “Dod sees ’oo, Dod sees ’oo. Dat’s funny,” she said, merrily. “Dolly knows what to say to the big man. Dod sees ’oo.” The old man looked at his watch. It, was already the half hour. His mysterious visitor might be expected at any moment. He placed the child in the chair directly opposite the door. Oh, how strange it all was! She sitting there like a little white angel, wreathed in her mistletoe ’mid the glitter of silver and gold, and he with his revolver, and the bright light on them Ixrth.

He slipped behind the screen and beckoned to the child to hush, and she was so quiet, still playing with th* silver cup. “Dod sees ’oo,” she piped

out merrily again, but bits finger held in warning silenced her. lie waited and listened. No sound. Again iie listened, then lie beard. What a different tread was this, so stealthy, so wary. Vice on tiptoe, of a truth. It came nearer. There was a whole world of meaning in each step. Eoi this was a maiden crime, and it seemed as if the man's heart failed him, as if at the eleventh hour some good in him were fighting for supremacy and he were undecided whether to heed or no. Still he came on. Approach, pause, recoil! Then a despairing rush forward, and a mental oath to do or die, and the final step which brought him into the light of the doorway. Still Amyot stayed behind tint screen. There was a hole in it through which he could see. It was as he hao surmised—the black bearded tramp, whom the week before he had seen iq converse with Mrs Jee. But the tramp was white faced now, and shaking and silent. He stood transfixed at the sight of the child enshrined there, a very virginal image amid the radiance and the glitter of it all. “Dod sees ’oo, dadda,” she said. “Dolly!” he gasped. “Dolly, Dolly. how did you come here?” “Old ’ooman.” she said, slipping from off the chair. “See. dadda. these pitty tings. De kind old man div dis to Dolly.” The thief threw a terrified glancu around. He looked at the gold and silver lying there in all profusion. Then he looked at the child, and again at the gold and silver. And then the child stepped up to him and placed the cup within his hand. He caught her up in his arms and pressed her to him with all the love he bore her. The silver cup fell to the ground. The child’s eyes followed it. Her lip was pouting.” “Come, Dolly dear, come with dadda.” “Dolly want de pitty ting.” He hesitated. She begged him. “No, dear child; the pretty thing belongs here. Dolly must not have it. Dadda must not take it.” “I am glad you have to come to that conclusion, Mr Jee.” With an exclamation the man turned. lie hugged the child more closely to him. He saw the squire before him. He made as if to rush from the room, but he seemed |x>werless to move. And Dolly buried her little face in his shoulder, and cried, oh, so bitterly!” “Had you not better finish what you came to do? Is that all you would take from here?” The squire was pointing to the child. “Yes, all. I want nothing more.** “Yet I think you came for more, Mr Jee.” “Yes, T came for —for those things: but they are as nothing to me now. I have not touched them. How do you know my name? How came my dear child here?” “Ask your mother. She will tell, unless I am much mistaken. This is your first crime—” “I have committed no crime.” said the man fiercely. “Ah, a casuist, T see. But come, consider; I am alone in this house, and I am old: you had better complete your work.” “No.” He hung his head. “Dolly’s so tiredy tiredy, Dadda.” She nestled dose in to the shoulder of her father. “Dod sees ’oo,” she murmured. and murmuring it she w’ent off to sleep.

The tears were rolling slowly down the lean face of the man. Still he held tight to the child. She was breathing so softly, sleeping so sweetly. He feared almost to move lest he should wake her. Yet he must go. How had she come there—whoever could it be? But thank God she was still his. And the awful thought upon him—oh. the horror of it —that he was to lose her. They would fake her from him. imprison him. punish him for crime, for crime: he, her father, a criminal! Oh. what had he done? “My God.** he said, as he realised it. “you will out send me to prison? Say. sir. speak, say you will not send me to prison? You will not take her from me. I have been starving, Tam starving. God help me.” “God has helped you. man—helped you through that sweet child. Thank Him. thank her. I would not punish her you can go.” “God bless you. sir.” “You had better follow me.” He extinguished the lamps in the strong room, and closed the door to, and led the way to his own room. At

the end of the passage he paused. Holly was still sleeping soundly. •‘Now you can call your mother.” “My mother, sir!—my mother is at home.” ”1 think not. Call her. 1 say—or I will. Mrs. Jee. Mrs. .lee. . There was no answer. Yet he felt certain that she was there. He called again. Then slowly from out of a corner of the dark passage, the old woman emerged, her handkerchief was to her face, and she was crying bitterly. She laid one hand on the arm of her son. “It was to save you from yourself, dearie —to save you from yourself. The dear, sweet child. I knew you could not do it wth her there.” “Come in. Mrs. Jee. You—” (turning to the man) “you had better eat.” “Sir. T—l—” “Eat, man. I say. and drink.” He sat down to the table. But he did not let go the child. The woman took her from him. and laid her gently down. Tehn he ate and drank, oh. so gratefully. For he had starved—starved that the little one should feed when it had been that there was not for both. For some minutes, silence. Oiiee or twice little Dolly sighed. The Squire was in his ehair, a very tumult in his heart —that heart they said was of stone. Oh. but he knew it 'was not. now more than ever he knew. Even though he should prove the direst ingrate he must look after this man henceforth. And his good mother, too, she must never want. What a good soul she was. And dear little Dolly, perhaps she had saved his life. Mho knows? Dear little Dolly. If she had not been there. He did not like the thought, and banished it. The clock on the mantel shelf struck twelve. How different it had all been two hours ago. It was still snowing and howling outside. They must not go into the bitter night. Hark: those were the bells. It was Christmas morn. The wind was that way: they sounded out so clear. He went to the window and looked out. the snow was ceasing, there was a rift in the sky. Was this night to mark a change in his life? He almost thought it was. There were dark figures there on the lawn standing all in line. The carols, of course. So they had come in spite of what he had said, in spite of his revolver. Well, let them stay. let them sing. They were singing. he could hear them. They saw him at the window. and were coming nearer. What was it they sang? Mother Mary meek and lowly. Nurses now the sleeping Child; He is come, so pure and holy. To save us from temptation wild. He looked at his dear little child — she should be his now to care for. How peacefully she slept. "Dod sees ’oo,” Would he ever forget those words? The man. her father, was on his knees beside her. His arms were round her. “For this and all His mercies to me a sinner, thank God,” he cried. And Gilbert Amyot said “Amen” to that.