But it fell that murmurs again from the flock broke the pastor’s peace. Some member had seen me at Havenpool, comrading close a sea-captain. (Yes; I was thereto constrained, lacking means for the fare to and fro.) Yet God knows, if aught He knows ever, I loved the Old-Hundredth, Saint Stephen’s, Mount Zion, New Sabbath, Miles-Lane, Holy Rest, and Arabia, and Eaton, Above all embraces of body by wooers who sought me and won! . . . Next week ’twas declared I was seen coming home with a lover at dawn. The deacons insisted then, strong; and forgiveness I did not implore. I saw all was lost for me, quite, but I made a last bid in my throbs. High love had been beaten by lust; and the senses had conquered the soul, But the soul should die game, if I knew it! I turned to my masters and said: “I yield, Gentlemen, without parlance. But—let me just hymn you _once_ more! It’s a little thing, Sirs, that I ask; and a passion is music with me!” They saw that consent would cost nothing, and show as good grace, as knew I, Though tremble I did, and feel sick, as I paused thereat, dumb for their words. They gloomily nodded assent, saying, “Yes, if you care to. Once more, And only once more, understand.” To that with a bend I agreed. —“You’ve a fixed and a far-reaching look,” spoke one who had eyed me awhile. “I’ve a fixed and a far-reaching plan, and my look only showed it,” said I. This evening of Sunday is come—the last of my functioning here. “She plays as if she were possessed!” they exclaim, glancing upward and round. “Such harmonies I never dreamt the old instrument capable of!” Meantime the sun lowers and goes; shades deepen; the lights are turned up, And the people voice out the last singing: tune Tallis: the Evening Hymn. (I wonder Dissenters sing Ken: it shows them more liberal in spirit At this little chapel down here than at certain new others I know.) I sing as I play. Murmurs some one: “No woman’s throat richer than hers!” “True: in these parts, at least,” ponder I. “But, my man, you will hear it no more.” And I sing with them onward: “The grave dread as little do I as my bed.” I lift up my feet from the pedals; and then, while my eyes are still wet From the symphonies born of my fingers, I do that whereon I am set, And draw from my “full round bosom,” (their words; how can _I_ help its heave?) A bottle blue-coloured and fluted—a vinaigrette, they may conceive— And before the choir measures my meaning, reads aught in my moves to and fro, I drink from the phial at a draught, and they think it a pick-me-up; so. Then I gather my books as to leave, bend over the keys as to pray. When they come to me motionless, stooping, quick death will have whisked me away.