Over this note Handel Beethoven did look thoughtful. Soprano singers whom he could control were certainly growing scarce.
In his perplexity, he actually consulted Deacon Slocumb, or, at least, he grumbled before him to the effect that he didn't know what they were going to do, as their soprano had a severe attack of ill humor. He presumed he could hardly be expected to manufacture sopranos to order, free of charge; though almost everything else was expected of him. If the church had a paid quartette choir, as it ought to have, all these nuisances would be avoided.
Deacon Slocumb had no word to offer, but when was dear old Auntie Barber other than sympathetic in any form of trouble? She, waiting in the aisle, overheard the grumbler, opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it and moved on, then turned back and stood in the leader's way, wrapping and unwrapping her hymn hook in a painfully embarrassed manner. She was very shy of Handel Beethoven.
"Well," he said in a surly tone, "do you want anything?"
Then Auntie Barber found voice. Mrs. Adams, her neighbor, had a niece visiting her, a young thing from Boston, who sang around the house like a lark, and Mrs. Adams told her they set store by her in a church in Boston; she had come to the country for the summer, to rest, and Auntie Barber did not know but maybe he would like to get her to help him for a little while; at least, she thought it would do no harm to mention it.
Handel Beethoven Smith forgot to thank her, did not relax one muscle of his gloomy face, and merely remarking that because somebody in Boston "set store" by a singer, was no sign that he would be able to tolerate her, brushed past meek old Auntie, and went his way. Nevertheless, in the course of the afternoon, he did call on Mrs. Adams, and hold a consultation with the niece from down East.
Evening came, and those who knew of the latest disturbance in our choir, waited, some of them in anxiety, and some in amusement, to see what development we would have next. A little thrill of comfort stole into Auntie Barber's heart as she saw the down East niece in the choir, but the rest of us did not know the fair-faced stranger.
The organ, contrary to its usual manner, was filling the church with slow, sweet sounds, as the people gathered, and then, suddenly, we had a sensation. A voice, sweeter, it seems to me, than could ever have sounded on earth before, rose on the hushed air, and rolled in melody down the aisles, each word as distinctly spoken as though it was a sermon by itself, reached our hearts:
"While Thee I seek, protecting power,
Be my vain wishes stilled,
And may this consecrated hour,
With better hopes be filled."
What was there in that voice to make us feel the solemn hush of the great "protecting power" all around us? Why, under its spell, did we feel our petty strifes and bickerings and jealousies hushing into stillness? How came the longing stealing over us for a higher life, and holier aims, and "better hopes?"