The congregation might have been dismissed for aught I knew, and left me sitting there with her beside me.  But I was startled into the proprieties as we stood up to sing the concluding hymn.  I was standing stock-still beside her, not listening to the words at all, but with a pleasant sense of everything being very comfortable, and an old-fashioned swell of harmony on the air, when suddenly the book dropped from Bessie’s hand and fell heavily to the floor.  I should have said she flung it down had it been on any other occasion, so rapid and vehement was the action.

I stooped to pick it up, when with a decided gesture she stopped me.  I looked at her surprised.  Her face was flushed, indignant, I thought, and instantly my conscience was on the rack.  What had I done, for my lady was evidently angry?

Glancing down once more toward the book, I saw that she had set her foot upon it, and indeed her whole attitude was one of excitement, defiance.  Why did she look so hot and scornful?  I was disturbed and anxious:  what was there in the book or in me to anger her?

As quickly as possible I drew her away from the bustling crowd when the service was concluded.  Fortunately, there was a side-door through which we could pass out into the quiet churchyard, and we vanished through it, leaving Mrs. Sloman far behind.  Over into the Lebanon road was but a step, and the little porch was waiting with its cool honeysuckle shade.  But Bessie did not stop at the gate:  she was in no mood for home.  And yet she would not answer my outpouring questions as to whether she was ill, or what was the matter.

“I’ll tell you in a minute.  Come, hurry!” she said, hastening along up the hill through all the dust and heat.

At last we reached that rustic bit of ruin known popularly as the “Shed.”  It was a hard bit of climbing, but I rejoiced that Bessie, so flushed and excited at the start, grew calmer as we went; and when, the summit reached, she sat down to rest on a broken board, her color was natural and she seemed to breathe freely again.

“Are they all hypocrites, do you think, Charlie?” she said suddenly, looking up into my face.

“They? who?  Bessie, what have I done to make you angry?”

“You?  Nothing, dear goose!  I am angry at myself and at everybody else.  Did it flash upon you, Charlie, what we were singing?”

Then she quoted the lines, which I will not repeat here, but they expressed, as the sole aspiration of the singer, a desire to pass eternity in singing hymns of joy and praise—­an impatience for the time to come, a disregard of earth, a turning away from temporal things, and again the desire for an eternity of sacred song.

“Suppose I confess to you,” said I, astonished at her earnestness, “that I did not at all know what I was singing?”