A second Sabbath came and almost passed. The hush of the Sabbath evening was upon us. Our church was very full; people not accustomed to church-going had been drawn in to hear the singer whom we were all beginning to understand was wonderful. We had almost held our breaths that evening in the fear that she would not be there. For she came a trifle late, and looked flushed, and troubled. But she sang the soprano in the opening hymns with her usual power, then dropped back into her seat, and some of us noticed that she kept her eyes shaded by her hand during the entire sermon. Mr. Smith touched her hand just before its close and whispered: "The doctor wants you to sing this as a solo. The words are mere doggerel, but the music will set off your voice to good advantage." Her face, which had grown pale, flushed a little over that; and I knew her afterwards well enough to understand that she would have refused to sing it, had not the minister's name been in the direction. She took it, however, without demur, and presently her marvelous voice filled the church: "Take my life, and let it be Consecrated, Lord, to Thee. Take my hands and let them move At the impulse of Thy love." Each word as distinctly enunciated as though the singer was reciting them. On, through the description of mental and physical powers, until she reached the words: "Take my voice, and let me sing, Always, only for my King." She was singing from sheet music, and the arrangement was such that the word "voice" rolled up into the higher notes, strong and pure, as though the singer would reach up, even to the throne, with the offering. "Take my voice, and—" Suddenly the singer faltered, the voice ceased. The organ, which had been keeping only a modest undertone of accompaniment, hurried into the melody, the player striking the chords with firm hand, as though to encourage the singer, but in vain. She only looked pleadingly at the leader and shook her head. And the minister who had been listening with closed eyes, and a heart attuned to the words wafted to him, caught the pleading look, and, rising, lifted his hands in benediction. Following hard on the "amen" came questions. Anxious friends had hurried to the choir gallery. "What is it?" "Were you faint?" "Get her a glass of water." "Where's a fan?" "Do you feel sick?" She turned from them toward the leader: "Mr. Smith, I am very sorry, but, indeed, I could not sing it; those words are awful!" "Words!" he said, in high indignation. "Is it possible you stopped for them? I told you they were mere doggerel. It was the marvelous tune, and your voice fits it. What are words?" She shivered as she answered him: "Words are awful, Mr. Smith—those words are. I could not speak them. Think of me calling God to witness that I give Him my voice, to sing only for Him, when I never sang a line for Him in my life! "'Always, only for my King!'