The Dawson journal., 1884-01-24


Handel's then new anthem, ST know
that my Redeemer liveth."
1t began-harsh, inharmonious, out of
tune-I know not why or how; but as it
progressed spell seemed upon all but
her and myself; one by one the instru-
ments ceased and were silent; one by
one the voices died away and were lost,
and she and alone, bound together and
driven on by an irresistible impulse.
went through the anthem; one soul. one
spirit seemed to animate both. The
whole congregation listened breathless
as to an angel; and she, self-absorbefa
and like one in trance, sang, filing
ME with delicious sense of peace and
exultation, the like of which 1 have
lever known since.
1t came to an end at last, and with
the last triumphant note fell forward
on the desk in a swoon.
When / recovered, found p1yself at
home in my own room, with the rector,
the doctor and my parents there, and
heard the doctor say:
81 told you he would, dear madam;
knew he would"
"Thank God - murmured nv mother.
My dear boy, how we have feared for
you T.
What difference I was courted and
made much of. "Genius p' and every
clever !" and Delightful talent |" such
were the expressions l now heard, in
stead of ''stupid 7" awkward |" and sun
tit for anything !"
My father bought fine instrument,
and was the hero of the village for
months.
1t was some days after that Christmas
that ventured to ask about the rector's
niece.
MY dear boy" said my mother;
"the like was never heard. We saw you
there and wondered what you were do
ing; but as soon as we saw you with the
bow, we knew you must be the person
there'd been so much talk about; and
then, when the anthem came, and we
all left off singing and they all left of
playing, and only you and Miss Cecilia
kept on, VIC were all in tears. 1 saw
even the rector crying; and, poor girl,
she seemed as if in dream, and so did
you; it was dreadful for me to see YOU
with your eyes fixed on her, watching
her so eagerly. And then to look at
her, staring up at the stained glass win
dow as if she could see through it, miles
and miles away into the sky. o, I'm
sure the like never was; and then. when
you fell down, I screamed, and your
father ran up and carried you down and
brought you home in Farmer SHADES
four. wheeler.
After this I had an invitation to 90
up to the rectory, and there in the long
winter evenings we used to sit; and
while l played, she sang. Oh, those
happy times when she loved me, but
only as a dear friend and 1 loved
her as never loved before or could love
again. do not know the kind of love
had for her. I was but little older
than she was, but 1 felt as a father
might feel to his daughter-a sweet ten.
derness and love that made me pitifuI
toward her. 1 knew she loved man
unworthy of her, and think, at times,
she felt this herself, and knew felt it.
Twas perfectly free of the rector's house
at last, and we used to find in our music a
means OF converse that our tongues
could never have known. All me-those
days! Gone Alas they are gone.
She left us at last, and in few years
her motherless child came back in her
place, and as again I sit in the old rec
tory parlor, years and years after my
first visit, with her daughter beside
me, singing-but, alas not with her
mothers voice-all the old memories
food back on me, and feel a grateful,
calm Joy in the openly-shown respect and
affection of the daughter of her whom
loved so silently, so tenderly and SO
long
sit in the old seat in the church now
and play, and, once in the year, the old
anthem; but the voice is gone that
filled the old church with a glory that
day. feel, as the sounds swell out and
the strings vibrate under my withered
fingers, I am but waiting to be near her
under the old yew-tree outside, and, it
may be, nearer to her still in the longed-
for future.