ietly. The
heat in the church was oppressive; his wife was delicate; what more
natural than that he should do this? Yet the gazer felt herself acutely
miserable. She knew Helen so well also that although to the rest of the
congregation the fair face preserved unchanged its proud immobility,
Anne's eyes could read at once the wife's happiness in her husband's
attention.

She drew back. "I can not sing to-day," she said, hurriedly; "I am not
well. Will you please make my excuses to the others?" As she spoke she
drew on her gloves. (She had a fancy that she could not sing with her
hands gloved.)

"Why, what in the world--" began the contralto. "But you _do_ look
frightfully pale. Are you going to faint? Let me go with you."

"I shall not faint, but I must get to the open air as soon as possible.
Please stay and tell the others; perhaps Miss Freeborn will sing in my
place."

Having succeeded in saying this, her white cheeks and trembling hands
witnesses for her, she went out through the little choir door, which was
concealed by the curtain, and in another moment was in the street. The
organist, hidden in his oaken cell, looked after her in surprise. When
the basso came in, with a flower in his mouth, he took the flower out,
and grew severely thoughtful over the exigencies of the situation. After
a few minutes of hurried discussion, the basso, who was also the leader,
came forth from the circus tent and made a majestic progress to the
rector's pew, where sat the lily-like Miss Freeborn, the rector's
daughter; and then, after another consultation, she rose, and the two
made a second majestic progress back to the circus tent, the
congregation meanwhile looking on with much interest. When the tenor
came, a rather dissipated youth who had been up late the night before,
he was appalled by the presence of the lily-like Miss Freeborn, and did
not sing as well as usual, Miss Freeborn, although lily-like, keeping
him sternly to his notes, and not allowing him any of those lingering
little descents after the other singers have finished, upon which he,
like many tenors, relied for his principal effects.

Meanwhile Anne was walking rapidly down the street; a mile soon lay
between her and the church, yet still she hastened onward. She was in a
fever, yet a chill as well. Now she was warm with joy, now cold with
grief. She had seen him. Her eyes had rested upon his face at last, and
he was safe, he was well and strong again. Was not