“That’s just it! just what makes it so dreadful! Nobody was thinking about it—­nobody!  Nobody there wanted to give up earth and go straight to heaven and sing.  I looked round at all the people, with their new bonnets, and the diamonds, and the footmen in the pews up stairs, and I thought, What lies they are all saying!  Nobody wants to go to heaven at all until they are a hundred years old, and too deaf and blind and tired out to do anything on earth.  My heaven is here and now in my own happiness, and so is yours, Charlie; and I felt so convicted of being a story-teller that I couldn’t hold the book in my hand.”

“Well, then,” said I, “shall we have one set of hymns for happy people, and another for poor, tired-out folks like that little dressmaker that leaned against the wall?” For Bessie herself had called my attention to the pale little body who had come to the church door at the same moment with us.

“No, not two sets.  Do you suppose that she, either, wants to sing on for ever?  And all those girls!  Sorry enough they would be to have to die, and leave their dancing and flirtations and the establishments they hope to have!  It wouldn’t be much comfort to them to promise them they should sing.  Charlie, I want a hymn that shall give thanks that I am alive, that I have you.”

“Could the dressmaker sing that?”

“No;” and Bessie’s eyes sought the shining blue sky with a wistful, beseeching tenderness.  “Oh, it’s all wrong, Charlie dear.  She ought to tell us in a chant how tired and hopeless she is for this world; and we ought to sing to her something that would cheer her, help her, even in this world.  Why must she wait for all her brightness till she dies?  So perfectly heartless to stand up along side of her and sing that!”

“Well,” I said, “you needn’t wait till next Sunday to bring her your words of cheer.”

In a minute my darling was crying on my shoulder.  I could understand the outburst, and was glad of it.

All athrill with new emotions, new purposes, an eternity of love, she had come to church to be reminded that earth was naught, that the trials and tempests here would come to an end some day, and after, to the patiently victorious, would come the hymns of praise. Earth was very full that morning to her and me; earth was a place for worshipful harmonies; and yet the strong contrast with the poor patient sufferer who had passed into church with us was too much for Bessie:  she craved an expression that should comprehend alike her sorrow and our abundant joy.

The tempest of tears passed by, and we had bright skies again.  Poor Mrs. Sloman’s dinner waited long that day; and it was with a guilty sense that she was waiting too that we went down the hill at a quickened pace when the church clock, sounding up the hillside, came like a chiding voice.

And a double sense of guiltiness was creeping over me.  I must return to New York to-morrow, and I had not told Bessie yet of the longer journey I must make so soon.  I put it by again and again in the short flying hours of that afternoon; and it was not until dusk had fallen in the little porch, as we sat there after tea, and I had watched the light from Mrs. Sloman’s chamber shine down upon the honeysuckles and then go out, that I took my resolution.