He clenched his shaking hands, striving to gain control of himself. In the early days of his misfortunes the necessity for straining every effort had kept him from brooding upon his losses, and finally a numbness of despair had seized him. But to-night the child's artless talk had brought back vividly the old home scene. He could see it now, as he had seen it so often in the light of a summer evening. The sparkling sea, with the tang of salt water wafted up over his fields; the rippling stream, winding like a thread of gold down to the Bay of Fundy; his cozy home peeping from its orchard nest, and Mary at the doorway, singing their baby's lullaby; Martin's gay voice passing down the road; and in the purpling woods the tender song of the hermit thrush: "_O hear all! O hear all! O holy, holy!_" A wave of desperate longing for the old days swept over him; a very passion of loneliness and homesickness shook his desolate soul. Why should he struggle against it? he asked himself. Why live on in misery, only to die in misery at the end? Why not end it now? There was no God, at least none that cared; and as for the future--he had laughed when the minister mentioned hell. What profounder wretchedness could it hold than all he had already endured? He rose to his feet stealthily. His eyes were burning in his white face. He stepped cautiously along the bank of the pond to a place where the water was deep. He glanced about fearfully. His only feeling was one of dread lest he be intercepted. He slipped into the shadow of a pile of logs, then crept to the edge of the dark water. Suddenly he paused, startled. Something had rustled in the willows. It was only a muskrat; but as he stood, listening, another sound fell upon his ear, the sound of a voice singing a familiar hymn. There was something in the singer's tone, a compelling sweetness, that made John McIntyre pause on the brink of death to listen. CHAPTER IX THE SONG IN THE NIGHT Though strife, ill fortune and harsh human need Beat down the soul, at moments blind and dumb With agony; yet, patience--there shall come Many great voices from life's outer sea, Hours of strange triumph, and, when few men heed, Murmurs and glimpses of eternity. --ABCHIBALD LAMPMAN. Miss Ella Anne Long was busy "reddin' up" the parlor, for to-night the young people of the village who were musically inclined--and, for that matter, who wasn't?--were to hold a final practice for the Temperance Society's concert.