c gushing,
In sweet and varied language tell of Thee.

All things are with Thy loving presence glowing,
The worm as well as the bright, blazing star;
Out of Thine infinite perfection flowing,
For Thine own bliss and their delight THEY ARE.

But chiefly in the pure and trusting spirit,
Is Thy choice dwelling-place, Thy brightest throne.
The soul that loves shall all of good inherit,
For Thou, O God of love art all its own.

Upon Thine altar I would lay all feeling,
Subdued and hallowed to Thy perfect will,
Accept these tears, a thankful heart revealing,
A heart that hopes, that trembles, and is still.

At the commencement of the hymn, Armstrong paid but little attention,
but as the sweet stream of melody flowed on from lips on which he had
ever hung with delight, and in the tones of that soft, beloved voice,
it gradually insinuated itself through his whole being, as it were
into the innermost chambers of his soul. He raised the dejected eyes,
and they dwelt on Faith's face with a sort of loving eagerness, as if
he were seeking to appropriate some of the heavenly emotion that to
his imagination, more and more excited, began to assume the appearance
of a celestial halo around her head. But it is not necessary to assume
the existence of insanity to account for such an impression. If there
be anything which awakens reminiscences of a divine origin, it is from
the lips of innocence and beauty, to listen to the pure heart pouring
itself out in tones like voices dropping from the sky. The sweetness,
the full perfection of the notes are not sufficient to account for the
effect. No instrument made by human hands is adequate to it. There
is something more, something lying behind, sustaining and floating
through the sounds. Is it the sympathy of the heavenly for the
earthly; the tender lamentation not unmixed with hope; the sigh of the
attendant angel?

Upon the conclusion of the piece, Faith rose and took a seat by her
father.

"Shall I sing more, father?" she inquired.

"No, my darling," answered Armstrong, taking her hand into his.
"Dearly as I love to hear you, and although it may be the last time,
I would rather have you nearer me, and hear you speak in your own
language; it is sweeter than the words of any poet. Faith, do you
believe I love you?"

"Father! father!" cried she, embracing him, "how can you ask so cruel
a question? I know that you love me as much as father ever