ime when psalm-books were in the hands of but few and the "lining" of
the psalm was therefore necessary.

There was no haste to be done with the psalm. Why should there be? They
had only one Sabbath in the week, and the whole day was before them.
The people surrendered themselves to the lead of Straight Rory with
unmistakable delight in that part of "the exercises" of the day in which
they were permitted to audibly join. But of all the congregation, none
enjoyed the singing more than the dear old women who sat in the front
seats near the pulpit, their quiet old faces looking so sweet and pure
under their snow-white "mutches." There they sat and sang and quavered,
swaying their bodies with the tune in an ecstasy of restful joy.

Maimie had often heard St. Paul's before, but never as it was chanted
by Straight Rory and sung by the Indian Lands congregation that day.
The extraordinary slides and slurs almost obliterated the notes of the
original tune, and the "little kick," as Maimie called it, at the end of
the second line, gave her a little start.

"Auntie," she whispered, "isn't it awfully queer?"

"Isn't it beautiful?" her aunt answered, with an uncertain smile. She
was remembering how these winding, sliding, slurring old tunes had
affected her when first she heard them in her husband's church years
ago. The stately movement, the weird quavers, and the pathetic cadences
had in some mysterious way reached the deep places in her heart, and
before she knew, she had found the tears coursing down her cheeks and
her breath catching in sobs. Indeed, as she listened to-day, remembering
these old impressions, the tears began to flow, till Hughie, not
understanding, crept over to his mother, and to comfort her, slipped
his hand into hers, looking fiercely at Maimie as if she were to
blame. Maimie, too, noticed the tears and sat wondering, and as the
congregation swung on through the verses of the grand old psalm there
crept into her heart a new and deeper emotion than she had ever known.

"Listen to the words, Maimie dear," whispered her aunt. And as Maimie
listened, the noble words, borne on the mighty swing of St. Paul's,
lifted up by six hundred voices--for men, women, and children were
singing with all their hearts--awakened echoes from great deeps within
her as yet unsounded. The days for such singing are, alas! long gone.
The noble rhythm, the stately movement, the continuous curving stream of
melody, that once marked