It was a fine church, and there was, as usual, a full congregation, for people will rally round a consistent Christian man, such as Mr. Mellis. Were there more like him, we should less frequently hear the familiar remark, “such a poor congregation.”
The service proceeded as usual until after the Third Collect, when the curate announced that “The words of the anthem would be found in the three hundred and thirty-second hymn.” There was a slight pause, and then the opening bars of Gounod’s “There is a green hill” rang through the church.
Magnus Duncan drew a long breath of delighted anticipation.
Presently the tones of a rich mellow contralto voice floated down the aisles and up to the vaulted roof of the building. It was a voice of rarest quality, powerful but sweet, and the singer sang as though her whole soul was wrapped up in the words and music.
The tender pathetic verses seemed to have gained a new meaning when sung as Marielle Heritage sang them that night. Magnus craned his neck to get a glimpse of the singer, but she was almost hidden from view by the reading-desk, for she had taken a seat in the choir-stalls on entering the church that evening, and a mass of fair hair under a black hat was all that could be seen.
On and on sang that glorious voice till the last verse was reached, and then with what tender insistence came the repetition of the words, “we must love Him too,” as if in pleading with a most precious child.
Mrs. Duncan glanced up at her husband’s face, to see there an expression which it had never worn before, and one which made a glad hope spring up in her heart.
As the last notes died away, a tear, noticed by the loving eyes that watched him, trickled slowly down the doctor’s face, and with a long-drawn sigh he sank upon his knees as the congregation knelt for the rest of the prayers. “For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,” was the text of the curate’s sermon that night. He was only a young man, but very earnest, and Dr. Duncan could not help thinking that he himself, though so much older, was as a very child in comparison, with regard to spiritual things. Only God knew how fervently John Duncan prayed to be led to the “living fountains of waters” that night!
It was about ten o’clock on the Saturday night following. Magnus, tired with a long day’s work, had just said “Good night” to his parents, and betaken himself off to bed, leaving them sitting by the drawing-room fire.
John Duncan was ostensibly reading the paper, but a close observer might have noticed that the reading progressed in a most eccentric fashion. He had not got beyond the first six lines of the leader during the last hour, but was staring absently at the printed matter before him, evidently without cognisance of the news it contained. Eventually he dropped the paper and gazed into the fire instead. Mrs. Duncan was occupied in finishing an interesting article in a favourite magazine, and when she had concluded it, she said, without looking up: