Diana's face sank into her clasped hands. The firelight played upon her golden hair. She knew, now, just how far she had wandered from the one true Light; just how poor had been her response to the eternal love which brought the Lord of glory to the manger of Bethlehem; to the village home at Nazareth; to the cross of Calvary. The love of Christ had not constrained her. She had lived for self. Her heart had grown hard and unresponsive. And now, in tenderest, reverent melody, the precious gifts were being offered--gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But, what had _she_ to offer? Her gold could hardly be accepted while she withheld _herself_. Yet how could love awaken in a heart so dead, so filled with worldly scorn and unbelief? The music had changed. It no longer came from unseen skies, or ranged back into past scenes, and ancient history. It centred in David, and the piano. He was playing a theme so simple and so restful, that it stole into Diana's heart, bringing untold hope and comfort. At length, she lifted her head. "What are you playing, now, Cousin David?" She asked, gently. David hushed the air into a whisper, as he answered: "A very simple setting, of my own, to those wonderful words, 'At even, e'er the sun was set.' You know them? The old tune never contented me. It was so apt to drag, and did not lend itself to the crescendo of hope and thankfulness required by the glad certainty that the need of each waiting heart would be fully met, nor to the diminuendo of perfect peace, enfolding each one as they went away. So I composed this simple melody, and I sing it, by myself, out in the African forests most nights, when my day's work is over. But it is a treat to be able to play it here, with full harmonies." "Sing it to me," said Diana, gently. And at once David began to sing, to his own setting, the tender words of the old evening hymn. And this was what he sang: Holy Star "At even ere the sun was set" [Music: _At e-ven ere the sun was set, The sick, O Lord, a-round Thee-lay_; _Oh, in what di-vers pains they met? Oh, with what joy they-went a-way!_ _They went a ... way! A ... men_] 1. At even ere the sun was set, The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay; Oh, in what divers pains they met! Oh, with what joy they went away! 2. Once more 'tis eventide, and we Oppressed with various ills draw near; What if Thy Form we cannot see? We know and feel that Thou art here. 3. O Saviour Christ, our woes dispel; For some are sick, and some are sad; And some have never loved Thee well, And some have lost the love they had; 4. And some have found the world is vain, Yet from the world they break not free; And some have friends who give them pain, Yet have not sought a friend in Thee.