delights that would flit across my mind even when I was studying
my hymns, or trying to listen to the minister. And I did want the
congregation to break up some time. Indeed, in those bright
spring days, the last hymn in the afternoon always sounded best,
because with it came the opening of doors into the outside air,
and the pouring in of a mingled scent of sea winds and apple
blossoms, like an invitation out into the freedom of the beach,
the hillsides, the fields and gardens and orchards. In all this I
felt as if I were very wicked. I was afraid that I loved earth
better than I did heaven.

Nevertheless I always did welcome that last hymn, announced to be
sung "with the Doxology," usually in "long metre," to the tune of
"Old Hundred." There were certain mysterious preliminaries,--the
rustling of singing-book leaves, the sliding of the short screen-
curtains before the singers along by their clinking rings, and
now and then a premonitory groan or squeak from bass-viol or
violin, as if the instruments were clearing their throats; and
finally the sudden uprising of that long row of heads in the
"singing-seats."

My tallest and prettiest grown-up sister, Louise, stood there
among them, and of all those girlish, blooming faces I thought
hers the very handsomest. But she did not open her lips wide
enough to satisfy me. I could not see that she was singing at
all.

To stand up there and be one of the choir, seemed to me very
little short of promotion to the ranks of cherubim and seraphim.
I quite envied that tall, pretty sister of mine. I was sure that