CHAPTER V.

BUT, alas for us, the day of peace was not yet!

It took a great deal to satisfy our leader, and he sat down after his last effort, gloomy and unsatisfied. His fierce brows remained drawn and unbending during the entire service. Almost before the "amen" of the benediction was pronounced, he expressed his mind, quite loud enough for the soprano to hear: "It is of no use to bring classic music into this choir; the singers are not equal to it. After all our drill, that A was flatted wretchedly! This is the last time; I shall never again attempt anything but the most ordinary psalm tune."

I regret that I cannot give you his rendering of the word "psalm." It was spoken as though the "ordinary psalm tune" was the lowest and most discouraging of all human productions, and to be reduced to the necessity of singing it conferred a degree of self-abasement below which it would be hard to fall.

Alas for our leading soprano! It was she who had flatted that miserable "A." It was she whose cheeks now glowed a painful crimson as she listened to the stinging criticism. It was also she who handed in her written resignation to Handel Beethoven that very afternoon, couched in language which he could not fail to understand. Since she, who had for years borne the name of being the most correct singer in town, and of having an unusually pure soprano voice, could not give him satisfaction, she was more than willing to resign her seat, and let him fill it when and where he could.

Over this note Handel Beethoven did look thoughtful. Soprano singers whom he could control were certainly growing scarce.

In his perplexity, he actually consulted Deacon Slocumb, or, at least, he grumbled before him to the effect that he didn't know what they were going to do, as their soprano had a severe attack of ill humor. He presumed he could hardly be expected to manufacture sopranos to order, free of charge; though almost everything else was expected of him. If the church had a paid quartette choir, as it ought to have, all these nuisances would be avoided.

Deacon Slocumb had no word to offer, but when was dear old Auntie Barber other than sympathetic in any form of trouble? She, waiting in the aisle, overheard the grumbler, opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it and moved on, then turned back and stood in the leader's way, wrapping and unwrapping her hymn hook in a painfully embarrassed manner. She was very shy of Handel Beethoven.

"Well," he said in a surly tone, "do you want anything?"

Then Auntie Barber found voice. Mrs. Adams, her neighbor, had a niece visiting her, a young thing from Boston, who sang around the house like a lark, and Mrs. Adams told her they set store by her in a church in Boston; she had come to the country for the summer, to rest, and Auntie Barber did not know but maybe he would like to get her to help him for a little while; at least, she thought it would do no harm to mention it.

Handel Beethoven Smith forgot to thank her, did not relax one muscle of his gloomy face, and merely remarking that because somebody in Boston "set store" by a singer, was no sign that he would be able to tolerate her, brushed past meek old Auntie, and went his way. Nevertheless, in the course of the afternoon, he did call on Mrs. Adams, and hold a consultation with the niece from down East.

Evening came, and those who knew of the latest disturbance in our choir, waited, some of them in anxiety, and some in amusement, to see what development we would have next. A little thrill of comfort stole into Auntie Barber's heart as she saw the down East niece in the choir, but the rest of us did not know the fair-faced stranger.

The organ, contrary to its usual manner, was filling the church with slow, sweet sounds, as the people gathered, and then, suddenly, we had a sensation. A voice, sweeter, it seems to me, than could ever have sounded on earth before, rose on the hushed air, and rolled in melody down the aisles, each word as distinctly spoken as though it was a sermon by itself, reached our hearts:

"While Thee I seek, protecting power, Be my vain wishes stilled, And may this consecrated hour, With better hopes be filled."

What was there in that voice to make us feel the solemn hush of the great "protecting power" all around us? Why, under its spell, did we feel our petty strifes and bickerings and jealousies hushing into stillness? How came the longing stealing over us for a higher life, and holier aims, and "better hopes?"

Perhaps none of us understood the "why," but we were under the spell. And certainly none of us knew or even dreamed that we were listening to the same words which Joe Slocumb had taken down verbatim in the morning.

The wonderful voice continued its marvelous sermon:

"Thy love the power of thought, bestowed."

What a wonderful thing to have bestowed upon us, and to what uses had we sometimes put it! But the voice went on:

"To Thee my thoughts would soar."

Oh, yes, gracious, protecting Power, lift Thou our thoughts up into thy plane!

"Thy mercy on my life has flowed, That mercy I adore."

Did we need a sermon after that? We had had our sermon; and yet, our minister had never preached a better one. We could feel that his faith had soared upward on the wings of that prayer-song, and taken fresh heart for work.

For the first time in our lives we had the pleasure of seeing Handel Beethoven Smith in thoroughly good humor. The wonderful voice which he had invited into his choir shed a reflected glory on him, and filled his small soul with as much elation as it could hold. His expressions of satisfaction might not have sounded remarkable to the fair singer, but for him they really were profuse:

"It is certainly a great pleasure to hear your rendering, after the soul-torturing performances which I have endured so long. I permitted you to use the same selection which we attempted in the morning, in order that this obtuse congregation might feel the difference, if it has any musical taste, which I doubt."

Then was the pretty singer discomfited: "Is it possible I chose something which was sung here this morning? I was not here; I went with Uncle to his church. I wouldn't have done it for the world! I am afraid I hurt somebody's feelings."

Our leader made haste to reassure her. No solo had been attempted; he had been too wise for that. It had only been sung as a quartette; and really, she need not be troubled. Nobody in that congregation knew good singing from bad.

Perhaps there was truth in the statement, but some of the congregation went away that night with a queer feeling tugging at their hearts that their lives, so wonderfully encircled by that Protecting Power, ought to be living exponents of its greatness, as they could but feel they were not.