Then Auntie Barber found voice. Mrs. Adams, her neighbor, had a niece visiting her, a young thing from Boston, who sang around the house like a lark, and Mrs. Adams told her they set store by her in a church in Boston; she had come to the country for the summer, to rest, and Auntie Barber did not know but maybe he would like to get her to help him for a little while; at least, she thought it would do no harm to mention it. Handel Beethoven Smith forgot to thank her, did not relax one muscle of his gloomy face, and merely remarking that because somebody in Boston "set store" by a singer, was no sign that he would be able to tolerate her, brushed past meek old Auntie, and went his way. Nevertheless, in the course of the afternoon, he did call on Mrs. Adams, and hold a consultation with the niece from down East. Evening came, and those who knew of the latest disturbance in our choir, waited, some of them in anxiety, and some in amusement, to see what development we would have next. A little thrill of comfort stole into Auntie Barber's heart as she saw the down East niece in the choir, but the rest of us did not know the fair-faced stranger. The organ, contrary to its usual manner, was filling the church with slow, sweet sounds, as the people gathered, and then, suddenly, we had a sensation. A voice, sweeter, it seems to me, than could ever have sounded on earth before, rose on the hushed air, and rolled in melody down the aisles, each word as distinctly spoken as though it was a sermon by itself, reached our hearts: "While Thee I seek, protecting power, Be my vain wishes stilled, And may this consecrated hour, With better hopes be filled." What was there in that voice to make us feel the solemn hush of the great "protecting power" all around us? Why, under its spell, did we feel our petty strifes and bickerings and jealousies hushing into stillness? How came the longing stealing over us for a higher life, and holier aims, and "better hopes?" Perhaps none of us understood the "why," but we were under the spell. And certainly none of us knew or even dreamed that we were listening to the same words which Joe Slocumb had taken down verbatim in the morning. The wonderful voice continued its marvelous sermon: "Thy love the power of thought, bestowed." What a wonderful thing to have bestowed upon us, and to what uses had we sometimes put it! But the voice went on: "To Thee my thoughts would soar." Oh, yes, gracious, protecting Power, lift Thou our thoughts up into thy plane! "Thy mercy on my life has flowed, That mercy I adore." Did we need a sermon after that? We had had our sermon; and yet, our minister had never preached a better one. We could feel that his faith had soared upward on the wings of that prayer-song, and taken fresh heart for work.