"Other refuge have I none,
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee:
Leave, ah! leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me;
All my trust on Thee is stayed;
All my help from Thee I bring;
Cover my defenceless head
With the shadow of Thy wing."
Then the hymn changed—hope displaced hopelessness, faith surmounted fear.
"Plenteous grace with Thee is found,
Grace to cleanse from every sin;
Let the healing streams abound,
Make and keep me pure within;
Thou of life the fountain art,
Freely let me take of Thee:
Spring Thou up within my heart,
Rise to all eternity."
The people in that rose-scented church heard the old hymn sung as they had never heard it sung before. A subdued hum of approval swept over the church as the girl sat down. She felt that she had sung well; her heart was in a tumult of happiness. She was glad when one man rose and lifted his hands in benediction.
Again the organ throbbed with glad melodies. The eager crowd fell into line and walked slowly to the altar to lay their roses there. Children with half withered blossoms, maidens with bunches of crimson flowers, here and there a stranger with gorgeous hot-house roses, older men and women with the products of the gardens of the little town—all moved to the spot where lay a bank of fragrant roses and placed their tributes there.
Phœbe added her roses to the others on the altar and left the church. Friends and acquaintances stopped to tell her how well she sang. But the words that one short year ago would have filled her with overwhelming pride in her own talent were soon crowded from her thoughts and there reigned there the words of the speaker, "No man has reached true greatness save he serves." She had learned great things at that Feast of Roses service. She had looked deep into her own heart and on its throne she had found David.
He was waiting for her outside the church.
"You sang fine, Phœbe," he told her as they went down the street together.
"Yes? I'm glad you liked it."