“That is strange; for here are some immortal qualities. These composers had brains, and began at the right end; they selected grand and tuneful words, great and pious thoughts; they impregnated themselves with those words and produced appropriate music. The harmonies are sometimes thin, and the writers seem scarcely to know the skillful use of discords; but they had heart and invention; they saw their way clear before they wrote the first note; there is an inspired simplicity and fervor: if all these choice things are dead, they must have fallen upon bad interpreters.” “No doubt,” said Vizard; “so please get well, and let me hear these pious strains, which my poor dear mother loved so well, interpreted worthily.” The Klosking's eyes filled. “That is a temptation,” said she, simply. Then she turned to Rhoda Gale. “Sweet physician, he has done me good. He has given me something to get well for.” Vizard's heart yearned. “Do not talk like that,” said he, buoyantly; then, in a broken voice, “Heaven forbid you should have nothing better to live for than that.” “Sir,” said she, gravely, “I have nothing better to live for now than to interpret good music worthily.” There was a painful silence. Ina broke it. She said, quite calmly, “First of all, I wish to know how others interpret these strains your mother loved, and I have the honor to agree with her.” “Oh,” said Vizard, “we will soon manage that for you. These things are not defunct, only unfashionable. Every choir in England has sung them, and can sing them, after a fashion; so, at twelve o'clock to-morrow, look out--for squalls!” He mounted his horse, rode into the cathedral town--distant eight miles--and arranged with the organist for himself, four leading boys, and three lay clerks. He was to send a carriage in for them after the morning service, and return them in good time for vespers. Fanny told Ina Klosking, and she insisted on getting up. By this time Doctress Gale had satisfied herself that a little excitement was downright good for her patient, and led to refreshing sleep. So they dressed her loosely but very warmly, and rolled her to the window on her invalid couch, set at a high angle. It was a fine clear day in October, keen but genial; and after muffling her well, they opened the window. While she sat there, propped high, and inhaling the pure air, Vizard conveyed his little choir, by another staircase, into the antechamber; and, under his advice, they avoided preludes and opened in full chorus with Jackson's song of praise. At the first burst of sacred harmony, Ina Klosking was observed to quiver all over. They sung it rather coarsely, but correctly and boldly, and with a certain fervor. There were no operatic artifices to remind her of earth; the purity and the harmony struck her full. The great singer and sufferer lifted her clasped hands to God, and the tears flowed fast down her cheeks. These tears were balm to that poor lacerated soul, tormented by many blows.