Half a dozen boys

by Anna Chapin Ray

"I am not quite sure; let me think it over. But come, we must have our dinner, and be ready for church."

As the procession of surpliced boys advanced up the middle aisle, Rob, who always came in with one eye on his cousin's seat, nearly dropped his book in astonishment, for at her side stood Fred, motionless and rather pale, his great brown eyes turned towards the chancel, his whole air and attitude suggestive of patient, anxious waiting. With a comically expressive glance at Bess, Rob passed on. A few steps back of him, leading the men, Bess noticed a new chorister whose boyish face, under a mass of curly brown hair, was striking from its delicate outlines, and told of a refined, happy nature.

The service went on much like all services. Fred mechanically rose and sat down with the rest, but Bess could see that the familiar words were making no impression on his mind. She had been glad that he could not see the expressive nudges and glances exchanged as, drawing his hand through her arm, she led him up the aisle to her usual seat. Once there, he shrank into a corner, just as some too audible words met his ear:—

"What's the matter with that boy in front?"

"Blind, and always will be. A peculiar case, started from St. Vitus's Dance. Isn't it too bad? One of our best families."

"Who's the girl? His sister?"

"No, only a friend. She's perfectly devoted to him, they say."

Bess looked anxiously down at him, to see how he bore these comments. He pressed his lips tightly together, and the hot blood rushed to his face and then back, leaving it white and still. She put her hand on his reassuringly, and felt the answering pressure. That was all, but for the first time Fred had heard himself talked over by strangers as a case likely to attract attention on all sides, wherever he went. In time it would not hurt him so much, but now—it was a bitter thought that his infirmity could not pass unnoticed. He wondered if all the people around him were watching him. Perhaps they were all whispering about him, only more softly. And they would look to see how he acted, whether he was awkward, and if he seemed sad. If he could only know just how many eyes were turned on him! Miss Bess had no idea how hard it was for him, or she would never have asked him to come. And Rob and Phil and the other boys, had they looked surprised to see him there?

Poor Fred! Had he but known that, except for Bess and Rob, who was watching in pity his friend's white, sad face, not a person in the church had a thought of him, now the service had begun! But what was the rector saying?—"The words of the anthem will be found"—And there was to be an anthem, then; Rob did say something about it. "Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth." What was that whisper? Some one calling attention to "poor Fred Allen"? But Miss Bess was 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: "And the spirit shall return unto God who gave it."