“It is so good of you to humour me in my fancy!” she said; “I loved the little hymn you all sang on the Sunday I came to church with my friends—­don’t you remember?—­and I want to hear it again.  I came in late to service that day, didn’t I?—­yes!—­it was so wrong of me!  But I should never do it again if I had the chance.  Unfortunately we are always sorry for our wrong-doings too late!” She smiled again, and in answer to murmured words of sympathy from Miss Eden, and the sight of tears in the eyes of Susie Prescott, made haste to say—­“Oh no!—­I’m not in any pain just now.  You need not think that.  I am just helpless—­that’s all.  But I’ve got all my reasoning faculties back, thank God!—­and my sight has been spared.  I can read and write, and enjoy music,—­so you see how many blessings are still left to me!  Will you ask the children to begin now, please?  There is not a piano in this room,—­but Cicely will play the accompaniment on the old spinet—­it’s quite in tune.  And she will sing with you.”

In another moment they were all grouped round the ancient instrument of Charles the Second’s day, and Cicely, keeping her hands well pressed on the jingling ivory keys, managed to evoke from them something like a faint, far-off organ-like sound.  Falteringly at first, and then more clearly and steadily, as Cicely’s full round voice assisted them, the children sang—­

    “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. 
     He maketh me down to lie
     In pleasant fields where the lilies grow,
     And the river runneth by.”

Maryllia listened, watching them.  The declining sunlight, pale as it was, shed luminance upon the awkward stumpy boys, and bashfully shrinking girls, as with round, affectionate eyes fixed upon her, they went on tunefully—­

    “The Lord is my Shepherd; He feedeth me,
     In the depth of a desert land,
     And, lest I should in the darkness slip,
     He holdeth me by the hand.

    “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want,
     My mind on Him is stayed,
     And though through the Valley of Death I walk,
     I shall not be afraid!”

Here, something like a sob interrupted the melody.  Some one in the little choir broke down,—­but Cicely covered the break with a tender chord, and the young voices rose above it.

    “The Lord is my Shepherd; O Shepherd sweet,
     Leave me not here to stray,
     But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold,
     And keep me there, I pray!”

With each verse, the harmony grew sweeter and more solemn, till Maryllia, lying back on her pillows with closed eyes through which the tears would creep despite herself, began to feel earth very far away and heaven very near.  At the ‘Amen,’ she said: 

“Thank you!  That was beautiful!  Do you mind singing the third verse over again?”

They obeyed, looking at Cicely for the lead.

    “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want;
     My mind on Him is stayed,
     And though through the Valley of Death I walk,
    I shall not be afraid!”