The chant was a marvelous one. It spoke of sorrow past, of grief stayed, of misery at an end forever, of tears dried, and a time when “there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying.” There was a gentle murmur in the flow of that solemn, soothing strain which was like the sighing of the evening wind among the hoary forest trees; it soothed and comforted; it brought hope, and holy calm, and sweet peace. As Despard rose from the organ Mrs. Thornton looked at him with moistened eyes. “I do not know whether your song brings calm or unrest,” said she, sadly, “but after singing it I would wish to die.” “It is not the music, it is the words,” answered Despard, “which bring before us a time when there shall be no sorrow or sighing.” “May such a time ever be?” murmured she. “That,” he replied, “it is ours to aim after. There is such a world. In that world all wrongs will be righted, friends will be reunited, and those severed here through all this earthly life will be joined for evermore.” Their eyes met. Their spirit lived and glowed in that gaze. It was sad beyond expression, but each one held commune with the other in a mute intercourse, more eloquent than words. Despard’s whole frame trembled. “Will you sing the _Ave Maria_?” he asked, in a low, scarce audible voice. Her head dropped. She gave a convulsive sigh. He continued: “We used to sing it in the old days, the sweet, never-forgotten days now past forever. We sang it here. We stood hand in hand.” His voice faltered. “Sing,” he said, after a time. “I can not” Despard sighed. “Perhaps it is better not; for I feel as though, if you were to sing it, my heart would break.” “Do you believe that hearts can break?” she asked gently, but with indescribable pathos. Despard looked at her mournfully, and said not a word. CHAPTER XXVI. CLASPED HANDS. Their singing went on. They used to meet once a week and sing in the church at the organ. Despard always went up to the Grange and accompanied her to the church. Yet he scarcely ever went at any other time. A stronger connection and a deeper familiarity arose between them, which yet was accompanied by a profound reverence on Despard’s part, that never diminished, but as the familiarity increased only grew more tender and more devoted. There were many things about their music which he had to say to her. It constituted a common bond between them on which they could talk, and to which they could always revert. It formed a medium for the communion of soul--a lofty, spiritual intercourse, where they seemed to blend, even as their voices blended, in a purer realm, free from the trouble of earth. Amidst it all Despard had so much to tell her about the nature of the Eastern music that he wrote out a long letter, which he gave her they parted after an unusually lengthy practice. Part of it was on the subject of music, and the rest of a different character. The next time that they met she gave him a note in response.