CHAPTER VI.

THERE was much looking forward to next Sabbath's services, and much eagerness to hear the glorious voice again. And we were not disappointed. With much elation did Mr. Handel Beethoven Smith spread the news. Miss Haviland, of Boston, was in the country for rest, but a little quiet Sunday singing she would not mind in the least: indeed, she would help them all she could; would like to do it. And when Handel Beethoven repeated this gracious acceptance of his invitation, he added thoughtfully that he presumed she would not be sorry to have the benefit of his training for a few weeks, and that it was a comfort to him to feel that he need not accept her help without being able to give a very adequate return. However that was, Miss Alice Haviland made glorious music for us all that Sabbath day.

"She sings like a nightingale," said Deacon Slocumb, "but when I look at her I can't think of nothing but one of them little bright-winged critters who flutter all ways to once."

As for Joe Slocumb, when he tried to describe her to his grandmother, he got no further than to say: "She's all in white, bunnit and all, only some blue ribbons a flying, and fluffy hair, the color of—say, Grandmother, do you s'pose the angels wear hair, and ribbons and things?"

A second Sabbath came and almost passed. The hush of the Sabbath evening was upon us. Our church was very full; people not accustomed to church-going had been drawn in to hear the singer whom we were all beginning to understand was wonderful. We had almost held our breaths that evening in the fear that she would not be there. For she came a trifle late, and looked flushed, and troubled. But she sang the soprano in the opening hymns with her usual power, then dropped back into her seat, and some of us noticed that she kept her eyes shaded by her hand during the entire sermon. Mr. Smith touched her hand just before its close and whispered: "The doctor wants you to sing this as a solo. The words are mere doggerel, but the music will set off your voice to good advantage."

Her face, which had grown pale, flushed a little over that; and I knew her afterwards well enough to understand that she would have refused to sing it, had not the minister's name been in the direction. She took it, however, without demur, and presently her marvelous voice filled the church:

"Take my life, and let it be Consecrated, Lord, to Thee. Take my hands and let them move At the impulse of Thy love."

Each word as distinctly enunciated as though the singer was reciting them. On, through the description of mental and physical powers, until she reached the words:

"Take my voice, and let me sing, Always, only for my King."

She was singing from sheet music, and the arrangement was such that the word "voice" rolled up into the higher notes, strong and pure, as though the singer would reach up, even to the throne, with the offering.

"Take my voice, and—"

Suddenly the singer faltered, the voice ceased. The organ, which had been keeping only a modest undertone of accompaniment, hurried into the melody, the player striking the chords with firm hand, as though to encourage the singer, but in vain. She only looked pleadingly at the leader and shook her head. And the minister who had been listening with closed eyes, and a heart attuned to the words wafted to him, caught the pleading look, and, rising, lifted his hands in benediction.

Following hard on the "amen" came questions. Anxious friends had hurried to the choir gallery. "What is it?" "Were you faint?" "Get her a glass of water." "Where's a fan?" "Do you feel sick?"

She turned from them toward the leader: "Mr. Smith, I am very sorry, but, indeed, I could not sing it; those words are awful!"

"Words!" he said, in high indignation. "Is it possible you stopped for them? I told you they were mere doggerel. It was the marvelous tune, and your voice fits it. What are words?"

She shivered as she answered him: "Words are awful, Mr. Smith—those words are. I could not speak them. Think of me calling God to witness that I give Him my voice, to sing only for Him, when I never sang a line for Him in my life!

"'Always, only for my King!'

"And I have never owned Him as my King! I tell you I could not speak those words. It is mockery. And, oh! How much of it I have done. It is all mockery; I do not mean any of it."

And she buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears.

Utter, silent consternation took possession of us. Not one seemed to know what word to offer.

But there was more than consternation on the face of Handel Beethoven Smith, and he was the first to regain power of speech as he turned to move away:

"Well, I had supposed myself familiar with all the forms of hysteria in which lady singers can indulge, but this is new!"

The minister had come to offer sympathy, but had been struck dumb by the singer's outcry. But now he rallied:

"My dear young lady, there is a remedy for your trouble. He is ready to blot out all the past. Will you give your voice to Him for the future?"

The rest of us were moving away, but the singer suddenly arrested us again. She seemed not to have heard the minister; but at that moment she caught sight of the wistful old face of Auntie Barber.

"Auntie—Auntie Barber," she said, springing up, and leaning over the choir rail, "Wait! I want to see you." And then she vanished from our sight.