IT was some weeks afterwards that I heard from Alice herself the rest of the story.
On that Sabbath afternoon she had been bustling about her room making ready for the evening service, singing snatches of sacred song, with no more thought of the words than had the wood robin just then singing his evening song. "I never thought words," she vehemently told me; "they had always seemed to me like so much necessary machinery on which to exhibit the tune."
While she fluttered from bureau to dressing table, then loitered a moment by the open window trilling her song, from the open window of the next house, separated from her only by a narrow passage way, came a voice, distinct and tremulous with earnestness. It took but a moment to realize that it was Auntie Barber at prayer.
"And I heard her pray for me," said Alice, her voice awe-stricken as she told of it. "You never heard such a prayer! At least, I never have. I was not used to hearing people pray for me. And she asked the Lord to get me ready to sing with the angels. Think how that must have made me feel! I, who had never thought about angels, and was afraid to die, and afraid to hear about death! But she prayed more than that. She asked God to let me sing for some soul that night; sing it a song that would make it want Christ for a friend. Think of it; I sing for a soul! It frightened me. I turned from that window feeling all white and faint. I thought I could not sing at all, and yet I must. But I cannot describe to you what an evening it was. I could not get away from that prayer. It seemed to float all about me. Try as I would, I could not put it aside. What if Auntie Barber's prayer should be answered, and I should sing some soul into peace with God, and there was I, afraid of Him! But that last hymn just stabbed me. Standing up there, all alone, and singing those awful words:
"'Take my voice, and let me sing
'Always, only for my King.'
"It seemed to me that I mocked Him with the words; that I had always been mocking Him, and I was afraid. I had just found out that it was a fearful thing to be able to sing. You remember that I called out to Auntie Barber as she passed, and went away with her? But I said hardly anything to her that I meant to. I began: 'O, Auntie Barber, you don't know me. You think I sing for God, but I don't. I've been mocking Him with just words all my life, and I am frightened, frightened!' She interrupted me just there.
"'Dear heart,' she said, 'He knows all about you, and he loves you, and is waiting for you. Come in, and tell Him the whole story.' And she drew me into that very room where she had prayed for me!
"The rest of the story isn't long to tell," said Alice, smiling on me with eyes that glistened; "but it will take eternity to live it! I finished the hymn that evening in Auntie Barber's room:
"'Take myself, and I will be
Ever, only, all for Thee!"
And she meant the words.