“What a thoughtful good little nurse you are!  Almost as watchful and patient as Elise.  Have you had your supper?”

“All that I want, some bread and milk.  Hero and I ate our supper before you came.  Shall I bring your slippers?”

“Thank you, I believe not.  Before long I will go to sleep.  Regina, open the organ, and play something soft and holy, with the Tremulant.  Sing me that dear old ‘Protect us through the coming eight,’ which my Douglass loves so well.”

“I wish I could, but you know, sir, it is a quartette; and beside, I should never get through my part:  it reminds me so painfully of the last time we all sang it.”

“Well then, my little girl, something else.  ’Oh that I had wings like a dove!’ To-night I am almost like a weary child, and only need a lullaby to hush me to sleep.  Go, dear, and sing me to rest.”

Reluctantly she obeyed, brightened the library lamp, and sat down before the cabinet organ which had been brought over to the parsonage for safe keeping while the church was being repaired.  As she pulled out the stops, Hannah touched her.

“Has he finished his supper?  Can I move the dishes and table?”

“Not yet.  He is too tired just now to eat.”

“Then I will wait here.  To tell you the truth, I have a queer feeling that scares me, makes my flesh creep.  While I was straining the milk just now, a screech-owl flew on the top of the dairy, and its awful death-warning almost froze the blood in my veins.  How I do wish Miss Elise was here!  I hope it is not a sign of a railroad accident to her, or that the vessel is lost that carried her boy!”

“Hush, you superstitious old Hannah!  I often hear that screech-owl, and it is only hunting for mice.  Mrs. Lindsay will come to-morrow.”

Her fingers wandered over the keys, and in a sweet, pure, and remarkably clear voice she sang “Oh that I had wings.”  With great earnestness and pathos she rendered the final “to be at rest,” lingering long on the “Amen.”

Then she began one of Mozart’s symphonies, and from it glided away into favourite selections from Rossini’s “Moise.”

Once afloat upon the mighty tide of sacred music she drifted on and on, now into a requiem, now a “Gloria,” and at last the grand triumphant strains of the pastor’s favourite “Jubilate” rolled through the silent house, out upon the calm lustrous summer night.

Of the flight of time she had taken no cognizance, and as she closed the organ and rose she heard the clock striking nine, and saw that Hannah was nodding in a corner of the sofa.

Surprised at the lateness of the hour, she stepped out on the verandah, and approached the arm chair.

The moon had sunk so low that its light had been diminished, but the reflection from the library lamp prevented total darkness.  Mr. Hargrove had not moved from the posture in which she left him, and she said very softly: