A strange feeling had come over her,--a feeling that she was one of the
great human family after all, and the icy mountain of reserve began to
thaw just a little. Her purchases made, she concluded to take another
road home. This route lay past a church. It was lighted, though early,
and a few real worshipers had met to pray before the regular service.

They were singing now, and Aunt Ruth paused, as a clear, triumphant
voice bore up the strain,--

"Plunged in a gulf of dark despair."

Spell-bound, she listened to its close, never stirring from her tracks
till a group of people passed near, then slowly walking on, you might
have heard her talking again to herself:--

"O Ruth Jones, where are you? I used to sing that, too, in the same old
church where I carried the roses, only it was years after. I used to
pray, too. I wonder if God would hear me now."

That night, and many nights after, she could not sleep; the words of
song kept ringing in her ears, bringing up the old scenes and
associations, till the great deep of her soul was broken up.

In her darkness she felt gropingly, feebly, for the old paths, and the
good Spirit was all the time leading her back to the light. I can not
retrace for you all the way that she came. I only know that gradually,
surely, the night wore away, and the Sun of peace shone upon her soul.
She went to the church, where the song had that night staid her
footsteps, and listened to the words of life.