read by the Circuit Rider, the last
prayer offered, and as a long ray of sunlight came through the mist and
fell across the little assembly, he turned expectantly to Pattie
Hoover, who stood between her father and Buck at the other end of the
grave. He had read the first lines of the hymn and he expected her to
raise the tune for the others to follow. But when a woman's heart is
very young and tender, and attuned to that of another which is
throbbing emotionally close by, her own feelings are apt to rise in a
tidal wave of tears, regardless of consequences; and as Buck Peavey
choked off a sob, Pattie turned and buried her head on her father's
arm. There was a long pause and nobody attempted to start the singing.
They were accustomed to depend on Pattie or her organ and their own
throats were tight with tears. The unmusical young preacher was
helpless and looked from one to another, then was about to raise his
hands for the benediction, when a little voice came across the grave.

"Ain't nobody going to sing for Mis' Bostick?" wailed Eliza, as her
head went down on the Deacon's arm in a shudder of sobs.

Then suddenly a very wonderful and beautiful thing happened in that old
churchyard of Providence Meeting-house under Harpeth Hills, for the
great singer lady stepped toward the Deacon a little way, paused,
looked across at the old Nob in the sunlight, and high and clear and
free-winged like that of an archangel, rose her glorious voice in the

"Hail, holy, holy, holy Lord,"

which she had set for him and the gentle invalid to the wonderful motif
of the Song of the Master's Grail. Love and sorrow and a flood of tears
had relieved a pressure somewhere, the balance had been recovered and
her muted voice freed. And on through the verses to the very end she
sang it, while the little group of field people held their breath in
awe and amazement. Then, while they all stood with bowed heads for the
benediction, she turned and walked away through the graves, out of the
churchyard and on up Providence Road, with an instinct to hide from
them all for a moment of realization.

"And here I have to come and hunt the little skeered miracle out of my
own feather pillows," exclaimed Mother Mayberry a little later with
laughter, tears, pride and joy in her voice, as she bent over the broad
expanse of her own bed and drew the singer girl up in her strong arms.
"Daughter," she said, with her cheek pressed to the flushed one against
her