many variations, arrived at last at

'Jesus, lover of my soul.'

As she sang the appealing words, her face was lifted up, and she saw
none of us; but she must have seen some one, for the cry in her voice
could only come from one who could see and feel help close at hand. On
and on went the glorious voice, searching my soul's depths; but when she
came to the words--

'Thou, O Christ, art all I want,'

she stretched up her arms--she had quite forgotten us, her voice had
borne her to other worlds--and sang with such a passion of 'abandon'
that my soul was ready to surrender anything, everything.

Again Mr. Craig wandered on through his changing chords till again he
came to familiar ground, and the voice began, in low, thrilling tones,
Bernard's great song of home--

'Jerusalem the golden.'

Every word, with all its weight of meaning, came winging to our souls,
till we found ourselves gazing afar into those stately halls of Zion,
with their daylight serene and their jubilant throngs. When the singer
came to the last verse there was a pause. Again Mr. Craig softly played
the interlude, but still there was no voice. I looked up. She was very
white, and her eyes were glowing with their deep light. Mr. Craig looked
quickly about, saw her, stopped, and half rose, as if to go to her,
when, in a voice that seemed to come from a far-off land, she went on--