piety, are some of them among the most beautiful in the world. Then came
the "Venite," of which here and there she sang a line or so, just one
or two rich notes like those that a thrush utters before he bursts into
full song. Rare as they might be, however, they caused those about her
in the church to look at the strange singer wonderingly.

After this, in the absence of his father, Morris read the lessons, and
although, being blessed with a good voice, this was a duty which he
performed creditably enough, that day he went through it with a certain
sense of nervousness. Why he was nervous at first he did not guess;
till, chancing to glance up, he became aware that Miss Fregelius was
looking at him out of her half-closed eyes. What is more, she was
listening critically, and with much intenseness, whereupon, instantly,
he made a mistake and put a false accent on a name.

In due course, the lessons done with, they reached the first hymn, which
was one that scarcely seemed to please his companion; at any rate,
she shut the book and would not sing. In the case of the second hymn,
however, matters were different. This time she did not even open the
book. It was evident that she knew the words, perhaps among the most
beautiful in the whole collection, by heart. The reader will probably be
acquainted with them. They begin:

"And now, O Father, mindful of the love
That bought us, once for all, on Calvary's tree."

At first Stella sang quite low, as though she wished to repress her
powers. Now, as it happened, at Monksland the choir was feeble, but
inoffensive; whereas the organ was a good, if a worn and neglected
instrument, suited to the great but sparsely peopled church, and the
organist, a man who had music in his soul. Low as she was singing, he
caught the sound of Stella's voice, and knew at once that before him was
a woman who in a supreme degree possessed the divinest gift, perhaps,
with which Nature can crown her sex, the power and gift of song.
Forgetting his wretched choir, he began to play to her. She seemed to
note the invitation, and at once answered to it.

"Look, Father, look on His anointed face,"

swelled from her throat in deep contralto notes, rich as those the organ
echoed.

But the full glory of the thing, that surpassing music which set
Monksland talking for a week, was not reached till she came to the third
verse. Perhaps the pure passion and abounding humanity of its spirit
moved h