“I felt that I was utterly alone when the bell ceased to ring,” she said. “People sent for me to take care of their sick, to comfort the dying, and to lay out the dead, and sing at funerals. That was all the life I had. Then my voice began to break, and my hair to turn gray. It is white, now,—see. “One morning I came home early, after watching all night with poor Widow Green, who was sick so long. I laid down on the lounge, with my dress on, and fell asleep. It was the day after it was resolved to close the church. Well, there came to me a vision. I seemed to be sittin’ alone on the church steps, when there stood before me a noble-lookin’ man, in a silvery haze, and said: ‘I am Elder John Myles. I was the founder of these plantations. I love this people, and the old church, which I founded. You are God’s child. Be true to His cause. Go to the old church every Sunday, and hold a meetin’ on the steps. If you remain true, the people will be gathered here again, and there will be a Great Thanksgiving, and you will be there in body or in soul.’ I woke. It was gone,—the beautiful face in the silver cloud. But the words were printed on my mind. They are there,—always there. “People call me crazy Hannah, but they all send for me when they are in trouble. Their harvests come and go, but the bell does not ring, nor the doors open. But I am true to the vision. The Great Thanksgiving will come, and I shall be there.” She then sang the song that she had promised. The words and music were really beautiful. I recall the first lines:— “How sweet to reflect on the joys that await me In yon blissful region, the haven of rest.” One of the stanzas began:— “Then hail, blessed state! hail, ye songsters of glory! Ye harpers of bliss, soon I’ll meet you above.” The beatific look that I had seen in her face, on the church steps, came back to her. It was the most lovely expression I ever saw. The music of the school of Billings, Holden, and Maxim, and the hymns and ballads to which it was written, were no weak compositions. There were people in those days who delighted to sing— “If you want to see the devil run, Shoot him with the Gospel gun,” to a dance rhythm, but the primitive, original psalmody of the old Orthodox churches was, as a rule, as solid as it was solemn. “While shepherds watched their flocks by night” had something of modern lightness and sprightliness, which may account for its popularity to-day, as a number in the programme of old folks’ concerts; but Maxim’s “Turner” and “Bath,” and Holden’s “Coronation” and “No war nor battle sound,” and Billings’ “Boston,” and many tunes, all of which formed a part of the musical experience of the best New England homes, some fifty years ago, were serious work, of the school of Tausur and of Handel.