At the first notes she lifted up her queenly head and stood, listening and appreciative.  Then he saw her rounded throat swelling like a bird’s, and the rich, full tones of her voice rang out through the welcoming sunshine, and the fluttering wrens, and proud red-breasted robins, and rival song-queens, the brown-winged thrushes,—­even the impudent shrieking jays,—­seemed to hush and listen.  Dobbin, fairly astonished, lifted up his hollow-eyed head and looked amazedly at the white songstress whose scarlet sash and neck-ribbons gleamed in such vivid contrast to the foliage about her.  A wondering little “cotton-tail” rabbit, shy and wild as a hawk, came darting through the bushes into the sunshiny patchwork on the path, and then, uptilted and with quivering ears and nostrils and wide-staring eyes, stood paralyzed with helpless amaze, ignoring the tall man in gray as did the singer herself.  Richer, rounder, fuller grew the melody, as, abandoning herself to the impulse of the sacred hour, she joined with all her girlish heart in the words of praise and thanksgiving,—­in the glad and triumphant chorus of the Te Deum.  From beginning to end she sang, now ringing and exultant, now soft and plaintive, following the solemn words of the ritual,—­sweet and low and suppliant in the petition, “We therefore pray Thee help Thy servants whom Thou hast redeemed with Thy precious blood,” confident and exulting in the declaration, “Thou art the King of Glory, O Christ,” and then rich with fearless trust and faith in the thrilling climax, “Let me never be confounded.”  Armitage listened as one in a trance.  From the depth of her heart the girl had joined her glorious voice to the chorus of praise and adoration, and now that all was stilled once more her head had fallen forward on her bosom, her hands, laden with golden-rod, were joined together:  it seemed as though she were lost in prayer.

And this was the girl, this the pure, God-worshipping, God-fearing woman, who for one black instant he had dared to fancy had come here expectant of a meeting with the man whose aim had been frustrated but the night before!  He could have thrown himself at her feet and implored her pardon.  He did step forth, and then, hat in hand, baring his proud Saxon head as his forefathers would have uncovered to their monarch, he waited until she lifted up her eyes and saw him, and knew by the look in his frank face that he had stood by, a mute listener to her unstudied devotions.  A lovely flush rose to her very temples, and her eyes drooped their pallid lids until the long lashes swept the crimson of her cheeks.

“Have you been here, captain?  I never saw you,” was her fluttering question.

“I rode in here on my way back from the station, not caring to meet all the good people going to church.  I felt like an outcast.”

“I, too, am a recreant to-day.  It is the first time I have missed service in a long while.  Mamma felt too unstrung to come, and I had given up the idea, but both she and Aunt Grace urged me.  I was too late for the omnibus, and walked up, and then I would not go in because service was begun, and I wanted to be home again before noon.  I cannot bear to be late at church, or to leave it until everything is over, but I can’t be away from mother so long to-day.  Shall we walk that way now?”