"What do you reckon folks'd do," she inquired, "if it wasn't for
plantin'-time and growin'-time and harvest-time? I've heard folks say
they was tired o' livin', but as long as there's a gyarden to be
planted and looked after there's somethin' to live for. And unless
there's gyardens in heaven I'm pretty certain I ain't goin' to be
satisfied there."

But the charms of the garden could not divert me from the main theme,
and when we were seated again on the front porch I returned to Milly
Amos and her hymn.

"You know," I said, "that there isn't any more harm in talking about a
thing on Sunday than there is in thinking about it." And Aunt Jane
yielded to the force of my logic.

"I reckon you've heard me tell many a time about our choir," she
began, smoothing out her black silk apron with fingers that evidently
felt the need of knitting or some other form of familiar work. "John
Petty was the bass, Sam Crawford the tenor, my Jane was the alto, and
Milly Amos sung soprano. I reckon Milly might 'a' been called the
leader of the choir; she was the sort o' woman that generally leads
wherever she happens to be, and she had the strongest, finest voice in
the whole congregation. All the parts appeared to depend on her, and
it seemed like her voice jest carried the rest o' the voices along
like one big river that takes up all the little rivers and carries 'em
down to the ocean. I used to think about the difference between her
voice and Miss Penelope's. Milly's was jest as clear and true as Miss
Penelope's, and four or five times as strong, but I'd ruther hear one
note o' Miss Penelope's than a whole song o' Milly's. Milly's was jest
a voice, and Miss Penelope's was a voice and somethin' else besides,
but what that somethin' was I never could say. However, Milly was the
very one for a choir; she kind o' kept 'em all together and led 'em
along, and we was mighty proud of our choir in them days. We always
had a voluntary after we got our new organ, and I used to look forward
to Sunday on account o' that voluntary. It used to sound so pretty to
hear 'em begin singin' when everything was still and solemn, and I can
never forgit the hymns they sung then--Sam and Milly and John and my
Jane.

"But there was one Sunday when Milly didn't sing. Her and Sam come in
late, and I knew the minute I set eyes on Milly that somethin' was the
matter. Generally she was smilin' and bowin' to people all around, but
this time she walked in and se