The sermon was ended now. The congregation had risen at its termination, and had settled again in their seats. The wardens were walking up the aisle to receive the alms-basins, when the organ began to murmur a low prelude. Louis and Margaret glanced at each other quickly. It was the Cantique de Noël.
Margaret leaned back in her seat, serene and restful, prepared for a deep enjoyment of the pleasure before her, and at that moment a rich, sweet voice, high up in the choir behind her began:
“Oh, holy night——”
At the first note uttered by that voice the color rushed to Miss Trevennon’s cheeks, and she drew in her breath with a sound that was almost a gasp.
And up on high the beautiful voice sang on:
“It is the night of the dear Saviour’s birth.”
Higher and sweeter it soared—thrilling, rich, pathetic—and how familiar to the young girl’s ears was every modulation and inflection! How often had that flood of melody been poured forth, for her ear alone, in the old parlor at home!
It was Charley Somers, and she knew that he had seen her, and that he was singing to her now, no less than then. She listened, as in a dream, while the wistful, yearning voice sang on. And now came the words:
“Fall on your knees! fall on your knees!”
They were somewhat indistinct, in their mingling of sweet sounds, and, in some vague way, it seemed to Margaret that they were a direct appeal from Charley Somers to her for mercy and pardon.