Douglass loves so well."

"I wish I could, but you know, sir, it is a quartette; and beside, I
should never get through my part: it reminds me so painfully of the
last time we all sang it."

"Well then, my little girl, something else. 'Oh that I had wings like
a dove!' To-night I am almost like a weary child, and only need a
lullaby to hush me to sleep. Go, dear, and sing me to rest."

Reluctantly she obeyed, brightened the library lamp, and sat down
before the cabinet organ which had been brought over to the parsonage
for safe keeping while the church was being repaired. As she
pulled out the stops, Hannah touched her.

"Has he finished his supper? Can I move the dishes and table?"

"Not yet. He is too tired just now to eat."

"Then I will wait here. To tell you the truth, I have a queer feeling
that scares me, makes my flesh creep. While I was straining the milk
just now, a screech-owl flew on the top of the dairy, and its awful
death-warning almost froze the blood in my veins. How I do wish Miss
Elise was here! I hope it is not a sign of a railroad accident to
her, or that the vessel is lost that carried her boy!"

"Hush, you superstitious old Hannah! I often hear that screech-owl,
and it is only hunting for mice. Mrs. Lindsay will come to-morrow."

Her fingers wandered over the keys, and in a sweet, pure, and
remarkably clear voice she sang "Oh that I had wings." With great
earnestness and pathos she rendered the final "to be at rest,"
lingering long on the "Amen."

Then she began one of Mozart's symphonies, and from it glided away
into favourite selections from Rossini's "Moise."

Once afloat upon the mighty tide of sacred music she drifted on and
on, now into a requiem, now a "Gloria," and at last the grand
triumphant strains of the pastor's favourite "Jubilate" rolled
through the silent house, out upon the calm lustrous summer night.

Of the flight of time she had taken no cognizance, and as she closed
the organ and rose she heard the clock striking nine, and saw that
Hannah was nodding in a corner of the sofa.

Surprised at the lateness of the hour, she stepped out on the
verandah, and approached the arm chair.

The moon had sunk so low that its light had been diminished, but the
reflection from the library lamp prevented total darkness. Mr.
Hargrove had not moved from the posture in which she left him, and
she said very softly:

"Are you asleep?"

He made no answer, and, unwilling to arouse