For the first time in our lives we had the pleasure of seeing Handel Beethoven Smith in thoroughly good humor. The wonderful voice which he had invited into his choir shed a reflected glory on him, and filled his small soul with as much elation as it could hold. His expressions of satisfaction might not have sounded remarkable to the fair singer, but for him they really were profuse: "It is certainly a great pleasure to hear your rendering, after the soul-torturing performances which I have endured so long. I permitted you to use the same selection which we attempted in the morning, in order that this obtuse congregation might feel the difference, if it has any musical taste, which I doubt." Then was the pretty singer discomfited: "Is it possible I chose something which was sung here this morning? I was not here; I went with Uncle to his church. I wouldn't have done it for the world! I am afraid I hurt somebody's feelings." Our leader made haste to reassure her. No solo had been attempted; he had been too wise for that. It had only been sung as a quartette; and really, she need not be troubled. Nobody in that congregation knew good singing from bad. Perhaps there was truth in the statement, but some of the congregation went away that night with a queer feeling tugging at their hearts that their lives, so wonderfully encircled by that Protecting Power, ought to be living exponents of its greatness, as they could but feel they were not. CHAPTER VI. THERE was much looking forward to next Sabbath's services, and much eagerness to hear the glorious voice again. And we were not disappointed. With much elation did Mr. Handel Beethoven Smith spread the news. Miss Haviland, of Boston, was in the country for rest, but a little quiet Sunday singing she would not mind in the least: indeed, she would help them all she could; would like to do it. And when Handel Beethoven repeated this gracious acceptance of his invitation, he added thoughtfully that he presumed she would not be sorry to have the benefit of his training for a few weeks, and that it was a comfort to him to feel that he need not accept her help without being able to give a very adequate return. However that was, Miss Alice Haviland made glorious music for us all that Sabbath day. "She sings like a nightingale," said Deacon Slocumb, "but when I look at her I can't think of nothing but one of them little bright-winged critters who flutter all ways to once." As for Joe Slocumb, when he tried to describe her to his grandmother, he got no further than to say: "She's all in white, bunnit and all, only some blue ribbons a flying, and fluffy hair, the color of—say, Grandmother, do you s'pose the angels wear hair, and ribbons and things?"