passing in the night; but no one saw the lonely girl, sitting there on a log of driftwood on the sands, her crimson cape clinging loosely to her shoulders, her dark face half-uplifted. Her eyes were fixed on the solitary light yonder by the pine wood, her grandfather's humble home.

Then it was she felt the distance between her and Margrete. She even fancied Margete felt it, too. During the two or three years they had been parted, the latter had learned to do without her friend. She had made other friends during her absence, and, from mingling with the world, had learned" to hold others at a distance," as she expressed it. Tirzah wondered, sometimes, if the "others" included her. And yet, was she not an Auldearn? Granddaughter of Sir Douglas Auldearn, of Glendonan Castle ? Her eyes kindled, and a flush crimsoned her cheeks. It was true her relatives had shown not the slightest interest in her. There was but one member of the family in America, a Mr. David Auldearn, of a well-known law firm in Boston, the brother next her father. He had married a wealthy heiress. Once in

his summer outing he had passed through Beth-aven and taken a kindly interest in his little dark-faced niece, but that was years ago. No word had broken the silence since, but it did not prevent her being an Auldearn, every inch an Auldearn. The same blood flowed in her veins, the same proud Scotch ancestry behind them both; the same refined, philosophic mind that had been her father's was hers. But what did those things matter ? It was just the same life before her-the same humdrum life, day in, day out; year in, year out.

She checked the sigh that rose to her lips, and the bright ripples of music came dancing through the air, quick, throbbing, vivacious, and yet there was a something in that music of a deeper, graver meaning. It was not the touch of the Margrete she had known. Her delicate ear could discern a change. Perhaps it was just that that made her so serious that night. She felt as if she had been left behind somewhere, and Margrete had gone on and on where the current broadened and deepened. That was just the thing Tirzah Auldearn craved, a wider, fuller life

see and feel and know, to live life what she in her blindness was life. But why should

to

the No!

She would

Why not?

Then a sterner look settled on her brow; her lips pressed firmly gether; her slender foot tapped sand with a decided movement. She would never go back to it! She would never go back to the old life as it had been ! No! take a university course. That very evening, before she left her room, she had been looking at those photographs she reverenced so much, those of her father in his graduating gown and the entrance to the college halls where he had been a student. Oh, if she could but taste that life! It was just the kind of life that would suit her.

True, she had not the means. But what is that in an age when we do not measure obstacles? She had saved but little from her meagre salary as teacher, but then-yes, why not try for a scholarship?

And then, some day, who knew, having taken a course in a Canadian university, she could surely command a large salary somewhere. Why should she not, after a few years' effort, cross the seas to some foreign seat of learning and become one of the noted women of her day?

Truly her ambition mounted high. If she could only get some easy employment in a university city, by means of which to support herself. and still leave time for study! Everything looks so easy in youth. "Where there's a will there's a way," she said.

She had heard of night-schools, and the idea suited her fancy. Why not teach a night-school? And some day, perhaps, she would meet her father's people, when she could make them feel that she, whom they treated as an outcast, was their equal in culture and intellect at least. She would like to meet Uncle David again. She felt, somehow, that he had liked her, in spite of his long years of silence. She had been told once that he had loved his brother deeply, and it had only been the fear of their father that had kept them apart.

At any rate, if the night-school scheme failed her, she would work in holidays. She would live in some garret on bread and cheese. She would make any sacrifice to fulfil her purpose. You would not have thought such strength of will lay behind those dreamy eyes.

She rose with a firmer, more decided step, and cast one backward look upon the waters, rocking gently under the hazy light of moon and star; the rowers passed again in the distance

with song and laughter; that hour, there on the lake-side, had changed her life. She was one of those natures who, having once formed a purpose, throw themselves with all their strength toward it, and through the days and nights that followed, she set her face to the toil with unflinching courage. The dreamer was in the field of battle, and far on into the night her light was seen, a solitary speck, gleaming among the hills.

"And did He rise, did He rise? Hear, O ye nations. hear it, O ye dead

So sang a thin, quavering voice, a voice that gave evidence of training, and in which, despite its weak tremble, one could still note traces of former sweetness and power.

66

Who's that?" abruptly asked Miss Grey, turning her fine eyes on the old lady sitting near her, busily knitting.

"It's only Grandpa," replied she, in an apologetic tone. "I hope he don't disturb you, Miss Grey? He takes a sight of comfort in singing that. Thinks he's practising for Easter. We don't mind it ourselves s'pose we've grown used to it."

Emma Grey had only come to the village that morning, and following the stage-driver's advice, had procured board at Mr. Samuel Evans'. Mr. Evans and his wife were clever people, she had been told, and as his boys had gone east to college, and the two old people were the only other occupants of the large, old house, it would be a nice, quiet place in which to rest and recruit.

Mrs. Evans, the younger, a hearty, bustling, hospitable person, seemed to have little time for anything beyond the management of affairs in and about the house. Her husband, being diligent, too, in business, was seldom seen at home on week-days, save at meal-time or night. The change from the roar and bustle of a city to the stillness of a peaceful midland village was so great that Emma Grey's nerves found a soothing sense of comfort in the quiet companionship of Grandma Evans. The gentle face of that old lady, as she sat placidly knitting, seemed to tell of trials surmounted, sorrows over

Grandma, cheered and won by her companion's interest, beamed upon her. "Yes, indeed, Jonas was the finest singer about these parts once. I just wish you could have heard him sing 'Buckfield or Ganges,' when he was a young man. There never was such a choir as we had in those days. Why, I shut my eyes sometimes now and seem to hear them all

again. Jonas was the leader always.
Did you
ever hear Invitation' sung,
Miss Grey? Well, I do wish you could
have heard our choir sing that anyway.
When Jonas-he was the tenor-sang,

Fly like a youthful hart or roe,
Over the hills where spices grow-

and all the other parts blended in, it made a harmony fit for heaven itself. I never expect to hear anything equal to it until I reach the 'Happy Land. And Grandma fell into a reverie.

་ ་་

Soon, rousing with a start, she continued garrulously, "Jonas was always that fond of singing. When anything pleased him greatly, it seemed as if he sang for fair joy; and when trouble came-and we've had our share of that in our time, Miss Grey-why singing was his only relief like.

"I remember when our John, our eldest, was brought home dead, thrown from horseback,' and Grandma's eyes wore a look of reflective sadness. "I believe singing was all that saved Jonas' reason then. Why, for months after, at times he'd leave his work and come in and take up the 'Vocalist' and sit right down and sing for half an hour, hard's he could. I never said anything against it. Sometimes I'd sit down too, and help him. I knew something about the place had reminded him of John and he needed comfort. By-and-bye he'd put the book away and go out again quite cheerfullike."

66

And he's sick now?" questioned the lady.

The

He had a slight paralytic stroke three months back," explained Grandma, “but he's getting quite smart again now. only thing is he can't remember he isn't still leader of St. John's church choir. He sits there practising all day long for Easter, that comes next Sunday week. He's set his heart on going to church that day. Whatever we're to do about it I'm sure I don't know. If it's a fine day and he's no worse, I wouldn't like to disappoint Grandpa about going. It might be bad for him. And yet to have him go and find it all changed," and Grandma's face wore an unaccustomed look of trouble.

"How changed?" again queried her companion.

It was not mere curiosity that prompted the question Grandma knew, for she felt the warm sympathy silently expressed by her guest's bright eyes.

"Well, it is this way," she returned, nothing loth. "Grandpa was choirleader of St. John's for nigh on to forty years. Last year he was notified that after Easter his services would no longer be required. They'd engaged a young New York man in his place. I've nothing to say against him one way or another, but it pretty nigh killed Jonas. He'd always given his services for nothing, from pure love of the work. Of course his voice had failed some, though Grandpa never could be made to think so elf, but then, land a year ago he a hearty man.

"However, for a few years back some of the young people had been agitating for a change. They wanted things more stylish-like, and Jonas was a terrible trial to some of them, for he would sing He arose' at Easter, and 'Come, let us anew our journey pursue' every New Year's, besides being determined to have an oldfashioned tune every little while. They couldn t abide that. They wanted classic music and Latin anthems, and a paid leader, and I don't know what and all. Well, they got their way at last," and Grandma paused to sigh.

"After that, Jonas sat in the body of the church with the rest of the folks and, he did try to be content; but he missed the old tunes, and it seemed as if the strangeness of everything wore on him awful. He'd sing the Vocalist' clear through sometimes, but it did him no good. Nothing seemed to help him. From being a fine presentable man he fell right away. Dr. Bangs called it a general breaking up. Then three months ago he Since then he's been hap

had a stroke.

pier, 'cause he don't remember about things. But I'm afraid Easter will kill him, and the faithful wife sorrowfully wiped her eyes.

Miss Grey, deeply touched by the simple story, hummed under her breath the air of the anthem still sounding from the next room.

"That was written by Billings, was it not?" she said. "I remember when I was a small girl hearing my grandfather sing it. It reminds me of him. I should think St. John's choir would feel badly about the effect their action had on Mr. Evans."

"Of course, conceded Grandma, "they never intended any such thing, However, 'twas too late to mend matters then, so this last year they've been fixing things as they want them. They've remodeled the church. The choir faces the people now, instead of being behind them in the gallery, as it used to be. Then they've a pipe organ and what they call really good music, though it don't seem so heartsome to me as the old hymns used to. However, I'm old now, and if it wasn't for disappointing Jonas next Sunday week, I wouldn't care."

he's coaxed her to help them that day. Everybody appears to think it's something to be thankful for, but I don't know, I'm sure," with a doubtful shake of her head.

During the week that followed, Miss Grey heard Grandpa Evans singing snatches of his anthem at odd hours of day and night. The worried look on his old wife's face deepened as the Eastertide approached. Even Mr. Samuel Evans and his wife confided to her their doubts as to the effect of the Easter services on the old man, and asked her advice. She could only counsel them to conduct him to his old seat in the gallery that he had occupied so long as leader, and then to let matters take their course, since they were powerless to hinder them.

She had never before been so interested and drawn out of herself. Her shattered

nerves that she had come to the village to strengthen were forgotten in intense sympathy and thought for others. When a day or two later she left the Evans homestead, she felt as if parting with familiar friends. Owing to subsequent events some weeks passed before she thought of her health, and then she realized she had cured her own ills by planning for others.

Easter dawned bright and clear, a typical Sabbath morning. Grandpa Evans was up and dressed for church bright and early, eager as a boy for a long expected treat. His son and daughter and old wife went about silently, anxious dread on their faces and deep sadness in their hearts. The expectant delight of the old man found no echo in their minds. The sweet freshness of the air, the twitter of the birds, and the pleasantness of a drive on that genuine spring morning was lost upon all but him.

When at length his son helped him out of the carriage and up the gallery steps to his long accustomed seat, the church was crowded. A lady seemed to be keeping a seat in front, Grandpa's old seat, vacant for some one. When they approached, she moved out into the aisle, and they saw with amazement their friend Miss Grey. With a smile she sat down again beside the feeble old man. Grandma, too, sat with her husband in the gallery that morning, but the others went to their own place in the body of the church.

Grandpa sat through the opening exercises as if in a happy maze, and Grandma scarce took her eyes from his beaming face. Well she knew he was reserving

his powers to sing once again his beloved anthem, and she feared, oh, she feared.

At length the time, the crucial time, came. The choir opposite rose, nothing but the low, sweet murmur of the organ was heard. Grandpa, in the front of the gallery struggled slowly to his feet, blind to the fact that the choir was not around him as formerly. Grandma noticed that as he stood up Miss Grey did the same, and she thanked her in her heart, for was she not doing it to support her Jonas? But Grandpa needed no support. A flush was on his cheek and triumphant fire in his faded eyes. He stood firmly, his shoulders squared and his chest full. Grandma hardly breathed. The organ swelled louder and louder, and then a burst of melody swept through the building such as the walls of old St. John's had never echoed before. Surely the angels were lending their aid! At least, thought the grateful old woman, they must surely have selected the anthem, for these were the words they sang:

"The Lord is risen indeed,
Hallelujah,

Now is Christ risen from the dead,
And become the first-fruits of them that
slept."

Why it was Miss Grey who was singing! And her old man, her poor Jonas, with his weak, piping tenor, stood there and sang so happily, his face shining as the faces of those to whom it has been given to behold the glory of the Lord. Grandma bowed her head and wept for very thankfulness.

Few of the congregation assembled there that Easter morning forgot the spectacle, and few there were that needed much explanation of the occurrence. The aged man and young woman standing together singing made a picture worthy of remembrance. Her beautiful face as she sang was animated with kind, unselfish thought for the old man by her side, anxious only that he should find nothing lacking in the sweetness of his loved anthem. He, rapt, transfigured, his thin, pale face refined by suffering and glowing with a beauty wholly spiritual, sang as only the aged can when they sing with the spirit and understanding.

Few listened dry-eyed to that song of praise, and none wished it had been other than it was. None doubted, none could doubt, it to be a Song Acceptable.

After the service, friends and n

bours crowded around, all expressing pleasure at Grandpa's reappearance among them, and complimenting him on his youthful appearance.

"Yes," said Grandpa, in response to a remark about the unusually good music, "it was that anthem. The music was just like it used to be. I've dreamt about it often."

After much persuasion and almost the last to leave the church, he was at length taken home, a happy old man, babbling like a child for very light-heartedness. As for Grandma, she went up to Miss Grey and took her hand. No one ever knew what she said, but her very look was a benediction.

Next day word spread through the village that Grandpa Evans was dying. Miss Grey hastened to the house on receipt of the sad news. The doctor had said that the excitement of the day before had been too much for him in his weak state.

"But oh, Miss Grey," cried Grandma, seizing her hands and pressing them warmly, while the thankful tears poured over her face, "how glad I am Jonas was able to go to church yesterday and sing. He would have died anyway. I am sure of it. And to know he wasn't disappointed is such happiness. Why, last

night he said to me that any man could die easy listening to that anthem. That was shortly before he took this last stroke. Will you come and look at him? He can't move or talk now, poor Grandpa, but he is still able both to see and hear. It is so sad to see him die so without a word."

Miss Grey went into the room where Grandpa was lying, his thin, grey hair spread upon the pillow, and his poor, drawn face lighted by eyes filled with such pitiful, anxious wistfulness. As she silently gazed at him through swimming tears, a grey shadow seemed to fall over his face. Then, moved by a sudden inspiration, Emma Grey choked back her tears and sang:

"He rose, He rose, He burst the bars of death, He burst the bars of death, And became the first-fruits of them that slept."

As she sang, the strained, anxious pitifulness died out of the eyes, leaving only peace and joy. Gradually the lids drooped and before the anthem ended, like a tired child, Grandpa Evans fell on sleep.

Barrington, N.S.