ure, and feel their beauty as none
whose souls are not wholly shriveled and hardened can help doing, but the
world was, in her estimate, a vale of tears, and it was only by a
momentary forgetfulness that she could be moved to smile at anything.

Miss Cynthia, a sharper-edged woman, had formed the habit of crushing
everything for its moral, until it lost its sweetness and grew almost
odious, as flower-de-luces do when handled roughly. "There's a worm in
that leaf, Myrtle. He has rolled it all round him, and hidden himself
from sight; but there is a horrid worm in it, for all it is so young and
fresh. There is a worm in every young soul, Myrtle."

"But there is not a worm in every leaf, Miss Cynthia. Look," she said,"
all these are open, and you can see all over and under them, and there is
nothing there. Are there never any worms in the leaves after they get
old and yellow, Miss Cynthia?"

That was a pretty fair hit for a simple creature of fifteen, but perhaps
she was not so absolutely simple as one might have thought.

It was on the evening of this same day that they were sitting together.
The sweet season was opening, and it seemed as if the whispering of the
leaves, the voices of the birds, the softness of the air, the young life
stirring in everything, called on all creatures to join the universal
chorus of praise that was going up around them.

"What shall we sing this evening?" said Miss Silence.

"Give me one of the books, if you please, Cousin Silence," said Miss
Cynthia. "It is Saturday evening. Holy time has begun. Let us prepare
our minds for the solemnities of the Sabbath."

She took the book, one well known to the schools and churches of this
nineteenth century.

"Book Second. Hymn 44. Long metre. I guess 'Putney' will be as good a
tune as any to sing it to."

The trio began,--

"With holy fear, and humble song,"

and got through the first verse together pretty well. Then came the
second verse:

"Far in the deep where darkness dwells,
The land of horror and despair,
Justice has built a dismal hell,
And laid her stores of vengeance there."

Myrtle's voice trembled a little in singing this verse, and she hardly
kept up her part with proper spirit.

"Sing out, Myrtle," said Miss Cynthia, and she struck up the third verse:

"Eternal plagues and heavy chains,
Tormenting racks and fiery coals,
And darts t'