“You didn’t!  You missed the greatest opportunity in your life.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t.” replied Chester.  “Far from it.”

Lucy, rosy red, fled past her teasing uncle into the house.

CHAPTER IX.

A warm, gentle rain was falling.  No regrets or complaints were heard at Kildare Villa, for, as Uncle Gilbert said, the farmers needed it, he and his people were comfortably housed, and the excursionists—­meaning Chester and Lucy—­would do well to remain quiet for a day.

The minister had so far recovered that he walked unaided into the large living room, where a fire in the grate shed a genial warmth.  Chester and Lucy were already there, she at the piano and he singing softly.  At sight of her father, Lucy ran to him, helped him to a seat, then kissed him good morning.

“How much better you are!” she said.

“Yes; I am glad I am nearly myself again—­thanks to Aunt Sarah,” he said, as that good woman entered the room with pillows and footrest for the invalid, who was made quite comfortable.  Then the aunt delivered him to the care of the two young people, with an admonition against drafts and loud noises.

“All right, daddy; now what can we do for you?” asked Lucy.

“You were singing—­when I came in. * * * Sing the song again.”

“But loud noises, you know.”

“Sing—­softly,” he replied.

The two went back to the piano.  Lucy played and both sang in well modulated, subdued voices,

    “Jesus, I my cross have taken
      All to leave and follow Thee;
    Naked, poor, despised, forsaken,
      Thou, from hence my all shall be. 
    Perish every fond ambition,
      All I’ve sought, or hoped, or known,
    Yet how rich is my condition,
      God and heaven are still my own.”

They sang the three stanzas.  The two voices blended beautifully.  The father asked them to sing the song again, which they did.  Then they sang others, some of which were not familiar to the listener.

    “Oh, how lovely was the morning,
    Brightly beamed the sun above.”

“What was that last song?” inquired the father.

The two singers looked at each other as if they had been caught in some forbidden act.

“Why”—­hesitated Lucy, “that’s a Sunday School song.”

“A ‘Mormon’ song?”

“Yes.”

“Sing—­it again,” he said as he lay back on his pillows, closed his eyes and listened.

“Do you know any more—­’Mormon’ songs?”

Lucy, of course, did not know many.  Chester managed “O, my Father,” and one or two more.  Then Lucy closed the piano and went back to her father, where she stood smoothing gently his gray hair.  Thus they talked and read and sang a little more, while the rain fell gently without.