Then was the pretty singer discomfited: "Is it possible I chose something which was sung here this morning? I was not here; I went with Uncle to his church. I wouldn't have done it for the world! I am afraid I hurt somebody's feelings."
Our leader made haste to reassure her. No solo had been attempted; he had been too wise for that. It had only been sung as a quartette; and really, she need not be troubled. Nobody in that congregation knew good singing from bad.
Perhaps there was truth in the statement, but some of the congregation went away that night with a queer feeling tugging at their hearts that their lives, so wonderfully encircled by that Protecting Power, ought to be living exponents of its greatness, as they could but feel they were not.
[CHAPTER VI.]
THERE was much looking forward to next Sabbath's services, and much eagerness to hear the glorious voice again. And we were not disappointed. With much elation did Mr. Handel Beethoven Smith spread the news. Miss Haviland, of Boston, was in the country for rest, but a little quiet Sunday singing she would not mind in the least: indeed, she would help them all she could; would like to do it. And when Handel Beethoven repeated this gracious acceptance of his invitation, he added thoughtfully that he presumed she would not be sorry to have the benefit of his training for a few weeks, and that it was a comfort to him to feel that he need not accept her help without being able to give a very adequate return. However that was, Miss Alice Haviland made glorious music for us all that Sabbath day.
"She sings like a nightingale," said Deacon Slocumb, "but when I look at her I can't think of nothing but one of them little bright-winged critters who flutter all ways to once."
As for Joe Slocumb, when he tried to describe her to his grandmother, he got no further than to say: "She's all in white, bunnit and all, only some blue ribbons a flying, and fluffy hair, the color of—say, Grandmother, do you s'pose the angels wear hair, and ribbons and things?"
A second Sabbath came and almost passed. The hush of the Sabbath evening was upon us. Our church was very full; people not accustomed to church-going had been drawn in to hear the singer whom we were all beginning to understand was wonderful. We had almost held our breaths that evening in the fear that she would not be there. For she came a trifle late, and looked flushed, and troubled. But she sang the soprano in the opening hymns with her usual power, then dropped back into her seat, and some of us noticed that she kept her eyes shaded by her hand during the entire sermon. Mr. Smith touched her hand just before its close and whispered: "The doctor wants you to sing this as a solo. The words are mere doggerel, but the music will set off your voice to good advantage."
Her face, which had grown pale, flushed a little over that; and I knew her afterwards well enough to understand that she would have refused to sing it, had not the minister's name been in the direction. She took it, however, without demur, and presently her marvelous voice filled the church:
"Take my life, and let it be
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee.
Take my hands and let them move
At the impulse of Thy love."