There was the usual Sunday evening gathering at Windy Hill Rancho--neighbors and their wives, deacons and the pastor--but their curiosity was not satisfied by the sight of Mr. Hamlin, who kept his own room and his own counsel. There was some desultory conversation, chiefly on church topics, for it was vaguely felt that a discussion of the advisability or getting rid of the guest of their host was somewhat difficult under this host's roof, with the guest impending at any moment. Then a diversion was created by some of the church choir practicing the harmonium with the singing of certain more or less lugubrious anthems. Mrs. Rivers presently joined in, and in a somewhat faded soprano, which, however, still retained considerable musical taste and expression, sang, “Come, ye disconsolate.” The wind moaned over the deep-throated chimney in a weird harmony with the melancholy of that human appeal as Mrs. Rivers sang the first verse:-- “Come, ye disconsolate, where'er ye languish, Come to the Mercy Seat, fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts--here tell your anguish, Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal!” A pause followed, and the long-drawn, half-human sigh of the mountain wind over the chimney seemed to mingle with the wail of the harmonium. And then, to their thrilled astonishment, a tenor voice, high, clear, but tenderly passionate, broke like a skylark over their heads in the lines of the second verse:-- “Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, Hope of the penitent--fadeless and pure; Here speaks the Comforter, tenderly saying, Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure!” The hymn was old and familiar enough, Heaven knows. It had been quite popular at funerals, and some who sat there had had its strange melancholy borne upon them in time of loss and tribulations, but never had they felt its full power before. Accustomed as they were to emotional appeal and to respond to it, as the singer's voice died away above them, their very tears flowed and fell with that voice. A few sobbed aloud, and then a voice asked tremulously,-- “Who is it?” “It's Mr. Hamlin,” said Seth quietly. “I've heard him often hummin' things before.” There was another silence, and the voice of Deacon Stubbs broke in harshly,-- “It's rank blasphemy.” “If it's rank blasphemy to sing the praise o' God, not only better than some folks in the choir, but like an angel o' light, I wish you'd do a little o' that blaspheming on Sundays, Mr. Stubbs.” The speaker was Mrs. Stubbs, and as Deacon Stubbs was a notoriously bad singer the shot told. “If he's sincere, why does he stand aloof? Why does he not join us?” asked the parson. “He hasn't been asked,” said Seth quietly. “If I ain't mistaken this yer gathering this evening was specially to see how to get rid of him.” There was a quick murmur of protest at this. The parson exchanged glances with the deacon and saw that they were hopelessly in the minority.