of their comparative comfort.

Suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificent
voice, as if a prayer from her very heart for all who were in
distress, in the grand supplication, "Lord, remember David." Mary
held her breath, unwilling to lose a note, it was so clear, so
perfect, so imploring. A far more correct musician than Mary might
have paused with equal admiration of the really scientific knowledge
with which the poor depressed-looking young needlewoman used her
superb and flexile voice. Deborah Travis herself (once an Oldham
factory girl, and afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds as
Mrs. Knyvett) might have owned a sister in her art.

She stopped; and with tears of holy sympathy in her eyes, Alice
thanked the songstress, who resumed her calm, demure manner, much to
Mary's wonder, for she looked at her unweariedly, as if surprised
that the hidden power should not be perceived in the outward
appearance.

When Alice's little speech of thanks was over, there was quiet
enough to hear a fine, though rather quavering, male voice, going
over again one or two strains of Margaret's song.

"That's grandfather!" exclaimed she. "I must be going, for he said
he should not be at home till past nine."

"Well, I'll not say nay, for I have to be up by four for a very
heavy wash at Mrs. Simpson's; but I shall be terrible glad to see
you again at any time, lasses; and I hope you'll take to one
another."