I could no longer look into his face, for I was filled with contempt. I turned my eyes to see poor Miss Church-Member still struggling up the Hill of Remorse.
When the top was finally reached I heard Mr. World congratulating her: “Well done, noble woman! You have fought Remorse until you have mastered it. The pains and pangs incident to this climbing are over, and if you should come to another hill you will ascend it with more ease. Look about you at these cool mountain resorts called Apathy, and join me in a needed recreation as we mingle with the merry multitudes amongst these shady bowers.”
She needed no second invitation, being glad to seek relief in forgetfulness of her guilt.
As they went to their pleasures, Satan vanished to give attention to others who were ascending the same Hill of Remorse, some in a sullen mood and some with wails of anguish on their lips.
The delightful resorts of Apathy were now quieting the mind of Miss Church-Member, for the attractions on the mountain top were so numerous and so ingeniously arranged that, as she gave full attention to them, she no longer suffered any pangs of remorse.
On this plateau, so full of charms for every sense, I saw bands of music; gardens of shady retreat where one might while away the weary hours in gentle dalliance; and cooling fountains throwing forth their busy sprays.
Artists were painting the scenes of worldly ease, and poets were writing sweet verses for the singers of the place.
Miss Church-Member, who was a lover of the fine arts, asked Mr. World to tarry in one of the gardens of the poets where they might hear the songs of the season just from the pens of their authors.
This was a novel privilege; so he readily consented and accompanied her into a garden near by. They were greeted by sounds of instrumental music and charming voices raised in song.
After these harmonies died away a soloist sang a hymn that had been composed that same day. Her voice rendered each word distinctly: