She had taken much pains, at what personal cost keen lovers of music will understand, to teach her little folk to sing. It was possible, for they had all voices, but it had its difficulties, especially when Oliver insisted on joining the concert, as he did now, tossing his curls, and opening his rosy mouth like a great round O, but, nevertheless, looking so exceeding like a singing cherub that Christian caught him up and kissed him with a passionate delight. And then she proceeded gravely with the song, words and music of which she had to compose and to arrange, as she best could, so as to suit the capacity of her performers. And this was what her musical genius had come to--singing and making baby-songs for little children, to which the only chorus of applause was a faint "Bravo!" and a clapping of hands from the distant fireside. "Papa, we never thought you heard us. We thought when you were deep in that big book you heard nothing." "Indeed? Very well" said papa, and disappeared below the surface again, until he revived to take out his watch and observe that it was nearly time for little people to be safe asleep in their little beds. Papa was always unquestioningly and instantaneously obeyed, so the young trio ceased their laughing over their funny songs, and prepared for one--a serious one--which always formed the conclusion of the night's entertainments. Every body knows it; most people have been taught it, the first song they were ever taught, from their mother's lips. Christian had learned it from her mother, and it was the first thing she taught to these her children--the Evening Hymn--"Glory to Thee, my God, this night." She had explained its meaning to them, and made them sing it seriously--not carelessly. As they stood round the piano, Titia and Atty one at each side, and Oliver creeping in to lean upon his step-mothers knee, there was a sweet grave look on all their faces, which made even the two eldest not unpretty children; for their hearts were in their faces--their once frightened, frozen, or bad and bitter hearts. They had no need to hide any thing, or be afraid of any thing. They were loved. The sunshine of that sweet nature, which had warmed their father's heart, and made it blossom out, when past life's summer, with all the freshness of spring, had shined down upon these poor little desolate, motherless children, and made them good and happy--good, perhaps, because they were happy, and most certainly happy because they were good. For that mother--their real mother, who, living, had been to them--what Christian never allowed herself to inquire or even to speculate--she was gone now. And being no longer an imperfect woman, but a disembodied spirit--perhaps--who knows?--she might be looking down on them all, purified from every feeling but gladness; content that her children were taken care of and led so tenderly into the right way.