When they rose to sing, the tune must needs be one which they had often sung together, out of the same book, at the singing-school,--one of those wild, pleading tunes, dear to the heart of New England,--born, if we may credit the report, in the rocky hollows of its mountains, and whose notes have a kind of grand and mournful triumph in their warbling wail, and in which different parts of the harmony, set contrary to all the canons of musical Pharisaism, had still a singular and romantic effect, which a true musical genius would not have failed to recognize. The four parts, tenor, treble, bass, and counter, as they were then called, rose and swelled and wildly mingled, with the fitful strangeness of Aeolian harp, or of winds in mountain-hollows, or the vague moanings of the sea on lone, forsaken shores. And Mary, while her voice rose over the waves of the treble, and trembled with a pathetic richness, felt, to her inmost heart, the deep accord of that other voice which rose to meet hers, so wildly melancholy, as if the soul in that manly breast had come to meet her soul in the disembodied, shadowy verity of eternity. The grand old tune, called by our fathers "China," never, with its dirge-like melody, drew two souls more out of themselves, and entwined them more nearly with each other. The last verse of the hymn spoke of the resurrection of the saints with Christ: "Then let the last dread trumpet sound And bid the dead arise; Awake, ye nations under ground! Ye saints, ascend the skies!" And as Mary sang, she felt sublimely upborne with the idea that life is but a moment and love is immortal, and seemed, in a shadowy trance, to feel herself and him past this mortal fane, far over on the shores of that other life, ascending with Christ, all-glorified, all tears wiped away, and with full permission to love and to be loved forever. And as she sang, the Doctor looked upward, and marvelled at the light in her eyes and the rich bloom on her cheek,--for where she stood, a sunbeam, streaming aslant through the dusty panes of the window, touched her head with a kind of glory,--and the thought he then received outbreathed itself in the yet more fervent adoration of his prayer. CHAPTER XXXIX. THE ICE BROKEN.