th expectant faces and ears slightly turned
to catch every strain from the well-trained voices in the gallery
behind. This time the selection was from Mendelssohn and a soprano
voice began alone:

"Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove!
Far away, far away would I rove!"

Clear, pure and true, the sweet voice floated through the church. With
dramatic sympathy it yielded to the spirit of the melody and the pathos
of the words. It touched hearts with a sense of undefined sorrow and
longing. Madame Chapeau, the French milliner, who rented a sitting in
the church of her patrons, sat with eyes filled with tears that
threatened to plough pale furrows through the roses of her cheeks.

"In the wilderness build me a nest,"

suggested the sweet voice. Two weeks in a lonely country place had
been far too long the summer before for Madame, and a wilderness was
the last place she desired. But the plaintive song touched a
sentimental chord and answered every purpose. Mr. Stockman, who sat
midway of the center aisle, grasping his gold-headed cane, suffered the
keen business lines of his face to relax and looked palpably pleased.
He recalled the money contributed to the expense of the choir, and
reflected that he would not withdraw a dollar of it. To be sure, he
remembered that the services of this soprano, daughter of Robert Gray,
the iron merchant and elder of the church, were gratuitous; but still
he was glad to associate the thought of his money with the choir that
could render such music. And presently the chorus joined in the song,
and many voices added their harmony, to the increasing passion of the
cry:

"In the wilderness build me a nest,
And remain there forever at rest!"

Sensitive souls thrilled to the music, which unquestionably always
added the capstone to the aesthetic enjoyment of this, the most elegant
church at New Laodicea. The minister sat with a studied expression of
approbation and subdued enjoyment. The young stranger at his side sat
with eyes shaded by his hand.

The choir seated themselves with pleased relief, for there had been no
noticeable flaw in the production. The leader's sensitive face looked
as nearly satisfied as it ever became over any performance. The
organist slid off his bench and dropped into his chair to listen to the
sermon--or, perhaps not to listen. But he had done his part well,
faithfully filling in all the interstices of time between numbers of
the pro