rising, and he must too. He felt her small gloved hand rest lightly on his, as it lay on the rail in front of him, and he drew closer to her side—one friend who would not talk him over and wonder about him.
But the few notes on the organ were over, and then a voice filled the church, a rich, mellow tenor, now rising till the arches rang with its clear, high tones, now falling to a dreamy quiet, half covered by the sound of the organ. It was the new chorister. Standing there in the full glare of the gas that shone down on his innocent, boyish face, he seemed to be singing from very love of it, so simply and easily, as if the truth and dignified beauty of the words were filling his soul and insisting on utterance. “In the days of thy youth, when the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh.” Fred stood as if in a trance, listening to the wonderful voice, forgetful of the faces about him, forgetful even of his blindness. “While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars be not darkened.” Then the voice grew low and sad: “And fears shall be in the way;” but again it rose triumphant, at the last hopeful burst:
