At the commencement of the hymn, Armstrong paid but little attention, but as the sweet stream of melody flowed on from lips on which he had ever hung with delight, and in the tones of that soft, beloved voice, it gradually insinuated itself through his whole being, as it were into the innermost chambers of his soul.  He raised the dejected eyes, and they dwelt on Faith’s face with a sort of loving eagerness, as if he were seeking to appropriate some of the heavenly emotion that to his imagination, more and more excited, began to assume the appearance of a celestial halo around her head.  But it is not necessary to assume the existence of insanity to account for such an impression.  If there be anything which awakens reminiscences of a divine origin, it is from the lips of innocence and beauty, to listen to the pure heart pouring itself out in tones like voices dropping from the sky.  The sweetness, the full perfection of the notes are not sufficient to account for the effect.  No instrument made by human hands is adequate to it.  There is something more, something lying behind, sustaining and floating through the sounds.  Is it the sympathy of the heavenly for the earthly; the tender lamentation not unmixed with hope; the sigh of the attendant angel?

Upon the conclusion of the piece, Faith rose and took a seat by her father.

“Shall I sing more, father?” she inquired.

“No, my darling,” answered Armstrong, taking her hand into his.  “Dearly as I love to hear you, and although it may be the last time, I would rather have you nearer me, and hear you speak in your own language; it is sweeter than the words of any poet.  Faith, do you believe I love you?”

“Father! father!” cried she, embracing him, “how can you ask so cruel a question?  I know that you love me as much as father ever loved a daughter.”

“Promise me that nothing shall ever deprive you of a full confidence in my affection.”

“I should be most wretched, could I think it possible.”

“But suppose I should kill you this instant?”

“Dear father, this is horrid!  You are incapable of entertaining a thought of evil towards me.”

“You are right, Faith, but only suppose it.”

“I cannot have such a thought of my own father!  It is impossible.  I would sooner die than admit it into my mind.”

“I am satisfied.  Under no circumstances can you conceive a thought of evil of me.  But this is a strange world, and the strangest things happen in it.  I speak in this way because I do not know what may come to pass next.  I have always loved my fellow-men, and desired their good opinion, and the idea of forfeiting it, either through my own fault or theirs, is painful to me.  But men judge so absurdly!  They look only at the outside.  They are so easily deceived by appearances!  Do you know, that of late I have thought there was a great deal of confusion in the ordinary way of men’s thinking?  But I see clearly the cause of the errors into which they are perpetually falling.  All the discord arises from having wills of their own.  Do you not think so?”