“And the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.”
“Just look at Fred Allen!” whispered Rob to his neighbor, as they sat down, and the congregation drew a long breath after their eager listening, and turned to congratulate each other on the rich musical treat.
The boy seemed transfigured. With his head thrown up, his lips parted, and his cheeks flushed, he seemed held by the singer’s intense feeling. But the voice died away, and he came back to a consciousness of the place where he was, and of the cloud that darkened for him the sun and the light.
“Who was it?” asked Bess, as Rob came up to where they still sat, waiting for him.
“Who? That tenor? He’s a friend of Mr. Washburn, and sings in one of the large churches in New York. He just knows how to sing, too! Coming home now?”
Rob was looking unusually handsome as he stood there. His love of music, and the hearty way he joined in the singing, seemed to excite him, and it brought a bright color to his cheeks and a glow into his brown eyes. As the two
