"I remember that walk so well, Ida! The hot, sweet summer afternoon--the dusty plants by the pathway--the clematis in the hedges (I put a bit into my Prayer Book, which was there for years)--the grasshoppers and flies that our dresses caught up from the long grass, and which reappeared as we sat during the sermon. "The old gentleman was in his pew, but his glance was almost benevolent, as, in good time, we took our places. We (literally) _followed_ his example with much heartiness in the responses; and, if he looked over into our pew during prayers (and from his position he could hardly avoid it), he must have seen that even the Irishman had rejected compromises, and that we all knelt together. "There was one other feature of that service not to be forgotten. When the sermon was ended, and I had lost sight of the last grasshopper in my hasty rising, we found that there was to be a hymn. It was the old custom of this church so to conclude Evening Prayer. No one seemed to use a book--it was Bishop Ken's evening hymn, which everyone knew, and, I think, everyone sang. But the feature of it to us was when the Irishman began to sing. From her startled glance, I think not even the red-haired young lady had known that he possessed so beautiful a voice. It had a clearness without effort, a tone, a truth, a pathos, such as I have not often heard. It sounded strangely above the nasal tones of the school-children, and the scraping of a solitary fiddle. Even our neighbour, who had lustily followed the rhythm of the tune, though without much varying from the note on which he responded, softened his own sounds and turned to look at the Irishman, who sang on without noticing it, till, in the last verse, he seemed disturbed to discover how many eyes were on him. Happily, self-consciousness had come too late. The hymn was ended. "We knelt again for the Benediction, and then went back through the summer fields. "The red-haired young lady talked very little. Once she said: "'How is it we have never heard you sing?' "To which the Irishman replied: "'I don't understand music, I sing by ear; and I hate 'company' performances. I will sing to you whenever you like.' "'Mary,' said Fatima, when we were in our room again, 'I believe those two will marry each other some day.' "'So do I,' I answered; 'but don't say anything about it to Lucy.' "'No, indeed!' said Fatima, warmly. So we kept this idea sacred from Miss Lucy's comments--why, I do not think either of us could have told in words. 'Pity, that pleasant impressions--pity, that most impressions--pass away so soon! * * * * *