And then out he came upon the heights of the refrain, with all the universe conquered and at his feet. When the first Hallelujah burst from the congregation, mounting splendidly at his side, the leader closed his book. He flung it upon the seat, tore off his glasses, clasped his hands behind him, and let himself go. And with a mighty roar he swept congregation, choir, organ, everybody, up into a thunder of praise. "_Hallelujah, Hallelujah. Amen, Amen._" It might not have been considered finished by a musical critic, it may have lacked restraint and nicety of shading; but no one who heard the Algonquin congregation that morning singing "Ye Gates lift up your heads," led by Lawyer Edward Brians, could doubt that it was surely some such fine fresh rapture that rang through the aisles of Heaven on that creation day when the morning stars sang together and all the Sons of God shouted for joy. Helen Murray bowed her head for the benediction, the stinging tears rushing to her eyes, but they were not tears of sorrow. For the moment she had forgotten there was such a thing as pain. She had lost it as she had been swept up to the glad peaks of song. For one trembling moment she had caught a glimpse of a new wonder, the whole world moving, through sorrow and pain and dull misunderstanding, surely and swiftly up to God. And for that instant her soul had leaped forward, too, to meet Him. She came down from the heights; no mortal could live there, seeing things that were not lawful to utter. But from that first Sunday in Algonquin church her outlook on her new life was changed. She had seen the end of her rainbow. It was back of mists and clouds and storms, but it was there! And she could never again be quite so sad.