This was Annas’s song.
“She said,—‘We parted for a while,
But we shall meet again ere long;
I work in lowly, lonely room,
And he amid the foreign throng:
But here I willingly abide,—
Here, where I see the other side.
“‘Look to those hills which reach away
Beyond the sea that rolls between;
Here from my casement, day by day,
Their happy summits can be seen:
Happy, although they us divide,—
I know he sees the other side.
“‘The days go on to make the year—
A year we must be parted yet—
I sing amid my crosses light,
For on those hills mine eyes are set:
You say, those hills our eyes divide?
Ay, but he sees the other side!
“‘So these dividing hills become
Our point of meeting, every eve;
Up to the hills we look and pray
And love—our work so soon we leave;
And then no more shall aught divide—
We dwell upon the other side.’”
“Pretty!” said Miss Newton, in the tone which people use when they do not think a thing pretty, but fancy that you expect them to say so: “but not so charming as Miss Bracewell’s song.”
“Wait,” said I; “she has not finished yet.”
The harp was speaking now—in a sad low voice, rising gradually to a note of triumph. Then it sank low again, and Annas’s voice continued the song.
“She said,—‘We parted for a while,
But we shall meet again ere long;
I dwell in lonely, lowly room,
And he hath joined the heavenly throng:
Yet here I willingly abide,
For yet I see the Other Side.
“‘I look unto the hills of God
Beyond the life that rolls between;
Here from my work by faith each day
Their blessed summits can be seen;
Blessed, although they us divide,—
I know he sees the Other Side.
“‘The days go on, the days go on,—
Through earthly life we meet not yet;
I sing amid my crosses light,
For on those hills mine eyes are set:
’Tis true, those hills our eyes divide—
Ay, but he sees the Other Side!
“‘So the eternal hills become
Our point of meeting, every eve;
Up to the hills I look and pray
And love—soon all my work I leave:
And then no more shall aught divide—
We dwell upon the Other Side.’”
I turned to Miss Newton with my eyes full, as Annas rose from the harp. The expression of her face was a curious mixture of feelings.
“Was ever such a song sung in Mrs Desborough’s drawing-room!” she cried. “She will think it no better than a Methodist hymn. I am afraid Miss Keith has done herself no good with her hostess.”
“But Grandmamma would never—” I said, hesitatingly. “Annas Keith’s connections are—”
“I advise you not to be too sure what she could never,” answered Miss Newton, with a little capable nod. “Mrs Desborough would scarce be civil to the Princess herself if she sang a pious song in her drawing-room on a reception evening.”