kind thou art,
How good to those who seek!

But what to those who find! Ah, this
Nor tongue nor pen can show!
The love of Jesus, what it is
None but his loved ones know.]

The old monk sang with all his heart; and his voice, which had been
a fine one in its day, had still that power which comes from the
expression of deep feeling. One often hears this peculiarity in the
voices of persons of genius and sensibility, even when destitute of any
real critical merit. They seem to be so interfused with the emotions of
the soul, that they strike upon the heart almost like the living touch
of a spirit.

Agnes was soothed in listening to him. The Latin words, the sentiment of
which had been traditional in the Church from time immemorial, had to
her a sacred fragrance and odor; they were words apart from all common
usage, a sacramental language, never heard but in moments of devotion
and aspiration,--and they stilled the child's heart in its tossings and
tempest, as when of old the Jesus they spake of walked forth on the
stormy sea.

"Yes, He gave His life for us!" she said; "He is ever reigning for us!

"'Jesu dulcissime, e throno gloriae
Ovem deperditam venisti quaerere!
Jesu suavissime, pastor fidissime,
Ad te O trahe me, ut semper sequar te!'"[B]

[Footnote B:

Jesus most beautiful, from thrones in glory,
Seeking thy lost sheep, thou didst descend!
Jesus most tender, shepherd most faithful,
To thee, oh, draw thou me, that I may follow thee,
Follow thee faithfully world without end!]

"What, my little one!" said the monk, looking over the wall; "I thought
I heard angels singing. Is it not a beautiful morning?"

"Dear uncle, it is," said Agnes. "And I have been so glad to hear your
beautiful hymn!--it comforted me."

"Comforted you, little heart? What a word is that! When you get as far
along on your journey as your old uncle, then you may talk of _comfort_.
But who thinks of comforting birds or butterflies or young lambs?"

"Ah, dear uncle, I am not so very happy," said Agnes, the tears starting
into her eyes.

"Not happy?" said the monk, looking up from his drawing. "Pray, what's
the matter now? Has a bee stung your finger? or have you lost your
nosegay over a rock? or what dreadful affliction has come upon
you?--hey, my little heart?"

Agnes sat down on the corner of the marble fountain, and, covering her
face with her apron, sobbed as if her heart would break.

"W