“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you,” she repeated, and went on with the sermon.  Her tones were low, but clear, and her articulation so perfect that no syllable was lost; she could have been distinctly heard in a room twice as large as this.  The sight was one which thrilled every heart that looked on it; no poor laboring man there was so dull of sense and soul that he did not sit drinking in the wonderful picture:  the tall, queenly woman robed in simple flowing white, her hair a coronet of snowy silver; her dark blue eyes shining with a light which would have been flashingly brilliant, except for its steadfast serenity; her mouth almost smiling, as the clear tones flowed out; sitting quiet, intent, by her side, the beautiful boy, also dressed in white, his face lighted like hers by serene and yet gleaming eyes; his head covered with golden curls; his little hands folded devoutly in his lap.  One coming suddenly upon the scene might well have fancied himself in another clime and age, in the presence of some rite performed by a mystic priestess clothed in samite.  But the words which fell from the lips were the gentlest words of the gentlest religion earth has known; and the heart which beat under the clinging folds of the strange white garb was no priestess’ heart, but a heart full, almost to breaking, of wifehood, of motherhood.

It does not need experience as an orator to give significance to the magnetic language of upturned faces.  Before Draxy had read ten pages of the sermon, she was so thrilled by the consciousness that every heart before her was thrilled too, that her cheeks flushed and her whole face glowed.

The sermon had sounded eloquent when the Elder preached it; but now, from Draxy’s lips, it was transcendent.  As she read the closing paragraph,—­

“His peace He leaves with us:  his peace He gives unto us:  not such peace as He knew on earth:  such peace as He knows now in heaven, on the right hand of His Father; even that peace He bids us share—­that peace, the peace of God which passeth understanding,”—­she seemed to dilate in stature, and as she let the sermon fall on the table before her, her lifted eyes seemed arrested in mid air as by a celestial vision.

Then in a second more, she was again the humble, affectionate Draxy, whom all the women and all the little children knew and loved; looking round on them with an appealing expression, she said,—­

“Dear friends, I hope I have not done wrong in standing up here and taking it upon me to read such solemn words.  I felt that Mr. Kinney would like to speak to you once more through me.”

Then taking little Reuby by the hand, she walked slowly back to her pew.

Then Deacon Swift made sad work of reading the hymn,—­

“Blest be the tie that binds,”

And the choir made sad work of singing it.  Nobody’s voice could be trusted for many syllables at a time, but nobody listened to the music.  Everybody was impatient to speak to Draxy.  They clustered round her in the aisle; they crowded into pews to get near her:  all the reticence and reserve of their New England habit had melted away in this wonderful hour.  They thanked her; they touched her; they gazed at her; they did not know what to do; even Draxy’s calm was visibly disturbed by the atmosphere of their great excitement.