For a moment we all sat perfectly silent, then the minister rose, and said solemnly:
“Martha, let's sing something.”
Martha crossed the room to the cottage organ and seated herself on the stool.
“What shall we sing?” said she.
“Something with fight in it, Martha,” he responded; “something with plenty of fight in it.”
So we sang “Onward, Christian Soldier, Marching as to War,” and followed up with:
Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve And press with rigour on; A heavenly race demands thy zeal And an immortal crown.
When we had finished, and as Martha rose from her seat, the minister impulsively put his hands on her shoulders, and said:
“Martha, this is the greatest night of my life.”
He took a turn up and down the room, and then with an exultant boyish laugh said: