so amazingly sweet, that casual hearts stood still and marvelled at
their own emotion; and those who felt deeply already, responded with
a yet deeper thrill to the magic of that music.

"The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,
Are as a string of pearls to me;
I count them over, ev'ry one apart,
My rosary,--my rosary."

Softly, thoughtfully, tenderly, the last two words were breathed
into the silence, holding a world of reminiscence--a large-hearted
woman's faithful remembrance of tender moments in the past.

The listening crowd held its breath. This was not a song. This was
the throbbing of a heart; and it throbbed in tones of such
sweetness, that tears started unbidden.

Then the voice, which had rendered the opening lines so quietly,
rose in a rapid crescendo of quivering pain.

"Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer,
To still a heart in absence wrung;
I tell each bead unto the end, and there--
A cross is hung!"

The last four words were given with a sudden power and passion which
electrified the assembly. In the pause which followed, could be
heard the tension of feeling produced. But in another moment the
quiet voice fell soothingly, expressing a strength of endurance
which would fail in no crisis, nor fear to face any depths of pain;