"And I have never owned Him as my King! I tell you I could not speak those words. It is mockery. And, oh! How much of it I have done. It is all mockery; I do not mean any of it." And she buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. Utter, silent consternation took possession of us. Not one seemed to know what word to offer. But there was more than consternation on the face of Handel Beethoven Smith, and he was the first to regain power of speech as he turned to move away: "Well, I had supposed myself familiar with all the forms of hysteria in which lady singers can indulge, but this is new!" The minister had come to offer sympathy, but had been struck dumb by the singer's outcry. But now he rallied: "My dear young lady, there is a remedy for your trouble. He is ready to blot out all the past. Will you give your voice to Him for the future?" The rest of us were moving away, but the singer suddenly arrested us again. She seemed not to have heard the minister; but at that moment she caught sight of the wistful old face of Auntie Barber. "Auntie—Auntie Barber," she said, springing up, and leaning over the choir rail, "Wait! I want to see you." And then she vanished from our sight. CHAPTER VII. IT was some weeks afterwards that I heard from Alice herself the rest of the story. On that Sabbath afternoon she had been bustling about her room making ready for the evening service, singing snatches of sacred song, with no more thought of the words than had the wood robin just then singing his evening song. "I never thought words," she vehemently told me; "they had always seemed to me like so much necessary machinery on which to exhibit the tune." While she fluttered from bureau to dressing table, then loitered a moment by the open window trilling her song, from the open window of the next house, separated from her only by a narrow passage way, came a voice, distinct and tremulous with earnestness. It took but a moment to realize that it was Auntie Barber at prayer.