and so hymn after hymn, until at last she struck up:
"I will sing you a song of that Beautiful Land,
The far-away home of the soul,
Where no storms ever beat on the glittering strand,
While the years of eternity roll.
"O, that home of the soul in my visions and dreams
Its bright jasper walls I can see,
And I fancy but dimly the veil intervenes
Between that fair city and me."
The car was a wakeful hush long before she had ended; it was as if a beautiful spirit were floating through the air. None that heard will ever forget. Philip Phillips can never bring that "home of the soul" any nearer to anybody. And never, I think, was quite so sweet a voice lifted in the storm of a November night on the rolling plains of Iowa. It is a year ago. The singer's name, home and destination no one learned, but the thought of one listener follows her with an affectionate interest. Is she living? Surely singing, wherever she is. I bid her Godspeed. She charmed and cheered the November gloom with carols of the Celestial City. She passed with the full dawn of the coming morning out of our lives, and there is a strange ache at the heart as we think so. Whoever heard her that night could write her epitaph. They could say—they could write: