“Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,
Hope of the penitent—fadeless and pure;
Here speaks the Comforter, tenderly saying,
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure!”
The hymn was old and familiar enough, Heaven knows. It had been quite popular at funerals, and some who sat there had had its strange melancholy borne upon them in time of loss and tribulations, but never had they felt its full power before. Accustomed as they were to emotional appeal and to respond to it, as the singer's voice died away above them, their very tears flowed and fell with that voice. A few sobbed aloud, and then a voice asked tremulously,—
“Who is it?”
“It's Mr. Hamlin,” said Seth quietly. “I've heard him often hummin' things before.”
There was another silence, and the voice of Deacon Stubbs broke in harshly,—
“It's rank blasphemy.”
“If it's rank blasphemy to sing the praise o' God, not only better than some folks in the choir, but like an angel o' light, I wish you'd do a little o' that blaspheming on Sundays, Mr. Stubbs.”
The speaker was Mrs. Stubbs, and as Deacon Stubbs was a notoriously bad singer the shot told.
“If he's sincere, why does he stand aloof? Why does he not join us?” asked the parson.
“He hasn't been asked,” said Seth quietly. “If I ain't mistaken this yer gathering this evening was specially to see how to get rid of him.”