England, and in the church, the family pew,
where sat a man stern and strong, a woman beside him and two
little boys, one, the younger, holding her hand as they sat.
Then with swift change of scene he saw a queer, rude, wooden
church in the raw frontier town in the new land, and in the
church himself, his brother, and between them, a fair, slim girl,
whose face and voice as she sang made him forget all else in
heaven and on earth. The tides of memory rolled in upon his soul,
and with them strangely mingled the swelling springs rising from
this scene before him, with its marvellous setting of sky and woods
and river. No wonder he sat voiceless and without power to move.

All this Brown could not know, but he had that instinct born of
keen sympathy that is so much better than knowing. He sat silent
and waited. French turned to the index, found a hymn, and passed
it over to Brown.

"Know that?" he asked, clearing his throat.

"'For all thy saints'? Well, rather," said Brown. "Here, Kalman,"
passing it to the boy, "can you sing this?"

"I have heard it," said Kalman.

"This is a favourite of yours, French?" enquired Brown.

"Yes--but--it was my brother's hymn. Fifteen years ago I heard
him sing it."

Brown waited, evidently wishing but unwilling to ask a question.

"He died," said French softly, "fifteen years ago."

"Try it, Kalman," said French.

"Let me hear it," said the boy.

"Oh, never mind," said French hastily. "I don't care about having
it rehearsed now."

"Sing it to me," said Kalman.

Brown sang the first verse. The boy listened intently. "Yes, I can
sing it," he said eagerly. In the second verse he joined, and with
more confidence in the third.

"There now," said Brown, "I only spoil it. You sing the rest. Can you?"

"I'll try."

Without pause or faltering Kalman sang the next two verses.
But there was not the same subtle spiritual interpretation.
He was occupied with the music. French was evidently disappointed.

"Thank you, Kalman," he said; "let it go at that."

"No," said Brown, "let me read it to you, Kalman. You are not
singing the words, you are singing the notes. Now listen,

'The golden evening brightens in the west;
Soon, soon, to faithful warriors comes their rest;
Sweet is the calm of Paradise the blest.
Hallelujah!'

There it is. Do you see it?"

The boy nodded.

"Now then, sing," said Brown.

With face aglow and upli