'I won't be pulled and dragged about,' she said. 'I'll go into a corner and be quite quiet if you'll leave me alone, but I'll scream if you don't.'
Just then the singing began. I didn't want to miss any of it, and Serry was more likely to be quiet if I gave in. So I let her go; she went in before me very quickly, right into a corner as she said, and she gave me a sort of a nod over her shoulder. I hoped it meant she was going to be sensible.
'We all three sat listening and listening.'—c. xii. p. 175.
The singing was most beautiful that night. We all three sat listening and listening. I think Anne soon went up into the clouds again and forgot everything else. Maudie liked it too; she leant against me, but every now and then I felt her shiver, and little sobs went through her. Maud scarcely ever cries, but when she does it seems to tire her out. And Serry had worried her very badly.
'Are you cold, dear?' I whispered, and she said she was a little. Serry had hurried her out without seeing that she was properly wrapped up, and it was a chilly evening, I forgot to say. Perhaps it would have been better if I had made them all come away then, but it did seem such a pity to miss the singing. I think it was 'Angels ever bright and fair,' but I'm not sure. We've heard so many of her beautiful songs since then that I'm not sure which it was.
Suddenly we heard the door pushed open, and some one came into the church. It was a girl; she came in very quickly, and hurried up the aisle and in through a door or a curtain somewhere at the side. It was already darker than when we came. A minute after, we heard talking—the singing had stopped, I forgot to say—and then two people came out at the side, and hurried back again down the aisle and out at the door. It was the person who had been playing, and the girl who had come evidently to fetch her.
They didn't shut the door to, only closed it a little.
'What a pity,' said Anne, 'she's been fetched away.'