to say
for him that freedom was to him more than he knew what to do with. No
volubility of joy, no laughter, no manifested exultation in deliverance
from bondage: 't was a rare case; must one believe his eyes?

Probably the constraint of habit was upon the fugitive, the contraband.
Homesickness in spite of him, it might be. Oh, surely freedom was not
bare to him as a winter-rifled tree? Not a bud of promise swelling along
the dreary waste of tortuous branches? Possibly some ties had been
ruptured in making his escape, which must be knit again before he could
enter into the joy he had so fairly won. For you and me it would hardly
be perfect happiness to feast at great men's tables, while the faces we
love best, the dear, the sacred faces, grow gaunt from starvation.

Mr. Deane took to himself some glory in consequence of his late
achievements. He was a practical man, and his theories were now being
put to a test that gave him some proud satisfaction. The attitude he
assumed not many hours ago in reference to the organist has added to his
consciousness of weight, and to-day he has taken as little pleasure as
became him in the choir's performance. Now and then a strain besieged
him, but none could carry that stout heart, or overthrow that nature,
the wonder of pachydermata. Generally through the choral service he
retained his seat; a significant glance now and then, that involved the
man beside him, was the only evidence he gave that the music much
impressed him; but this evidence, to one who should understand, was
all-sufficient.

Meanwhile the object of these glances sat apparently lost in vacuity, or
patiently waiting the end of the services,--when all at once, during the
hymn, he sprang to his feet; at the same moment two or three beside him
felt as if they had experienced an electric shock. What was it? A voice
joined the soprano singer in one single strain, brief as the best joy,
but also as decisive. Ninety-nine hundredths of the congregation never
heard it, and the majority of those that did could hardly have felt
assured of the hearing; there were, in fact, but three persons among
them all who were absolutely certain of their ears. One was this
contraband; another an artist who stood at the foot of one of the
aisles, leaning against a great stone pillar; the third was, of course,
Sybella Ives.

She, the soprano, sang from that moment in a seeming rapture. The artist
listened in a sort of maze,--interpreting a