Quick, tender tears welled to her eyes—it almost seemed as if her mother were there beside her as the organ softly played it through; then a sense of awe fell upon her at the sublime burst of harmony that followed. She had never heard anything like it before. Everybody was singing, and yet the magnificent volume of sound that surged upward into space from that many-throated congregation was like one grand, gloriously inspired voice pouring forth its harmonious notes of praise to the author of "heavenly love."
She never forgot it; it was like the momentary lifting of the opaque curtain 'twixt earth and heaven, beyond which she caught a fleeting glimpse of fields elysian, the entrance to which must be through the Gate of Love alone.
The Bible reading followed, but she did not give much heed to it, for the spell produced by the music was still upon her, though now and then she caught a phrase which impressed her that Love was the subject or text chosen for the day, until suddenly, like a solemn message from Sinai, thundered out to her alone, came the startling words: "Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer."
She sat erect, every sense now alert, and listened to the closing passage: "He that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God, whom he has not seen?"
She did not hear another consecutive sentence. She sat like one benumbed throughout the service, but with her heart in a turmoil such as she had never experienced before—the words "love" and "hate" ringing continual changes in her thought.
She thought she had always known their full import; she had read those passages from the Bible perhaps a hundred times; but never until now had she been arraigned before the bar of an inexorable judge, to be sifted as wheat in the thought, and purpose, and intents of her heart toward her brother man.
When the benediction was pronounced, a richly clad woman who had been sitting beside her turned, with cordially extended hand, to greet her. She was very beautiful to look upon, with peace written on every line of her face, love shining in her clear blue eyes, and a crown of snow-white hair rippling above her forehead; and yet she could not have been fifty years of age.
"I think you are a stranger here?" she observed, with a smile that almost made Helen weep, it was so sunny, yet so sympathetic. "I hope you have enjoyed our service."
What was there about her that so summarily broke down Helen's habitual self-control? She never could account for it afterward, but before she was really aware of what she was saying she burst forth:
"What is love? What is—hate?"