had not come to church at all.

Then all at once the Angel of Love touched there foolish
thoughts, born of vanity and morbid pride, and they melted
away as if they had never been. Sylvia Gray had come into the
choir, and was sitting just where the afternoon sunshine fell
over her beautiful hair like a halo. The Old Lady looked at
her in a rapture of satisfied longing and thenceforth the
service was blessed to her, as anything is blessed which comes
through the medium of unselfish love, whether human or divine.
Nay, are they not one and the same, differing in degree only,
not in kind?

The Old Lady had never had such a good, satisfying look at
Sylvia before. All her former glimpses had been stolen and
fleeting. Now she sat and gazed upon her to her hungry heart's
content, lingering delightedly over every little charm and
loveliness--the way Sylvia's shining hair rippled back from
her forehead, the sweet little trick she had of dropping
quickly her long-lashed eyelids when she encountered too bold
or curious a glance, and the slender, beautifully modelled
hands--so like Leslie Gray's hands--that held her hymn book.
She was dressed very plainly in a black skirt and a white
shirtwaist; but none of the other girls in the choir, with all
their fine feathers, could hold a candle to her--as the egg
pedlar said to his wife, going home from church.

The Old Lady listened to the opening hymns with keen pleasure.
Sylvia's voice thrilled through and dominated them all. But
when the ushers got up to take the collection, an undercurrent