the service began.

There is no better musical service in England than that which Sunday
after Sunday is conducted at St. Hilda's Chapel at Kingsdene. The
harmony and the richness of the sounds which fill that old chapel can
scarcely be surpassed. The boys send up notes clear and sweet as
nightingales into the fretted arches of the roof; the men's deeper
notes swell the music until it breaks on the ears in a full tide of
perfect harmony; the great organ fills in the breaks and pauses. This
splendid service of song seems to reach perfection. In its way earth
cannot give anything more perfect.

Maggie Oliphant did not come very often to St. Hilda's. At one time
she was a constant worshiper there, but that was a year ago, before
something happened which changed her. Then Sunday after Sunday two
lovely girls used to walk up the aisle side by side. The verger knew
them and reserved their favorite stalls for them. They used to kneel
together and listen to the service, and, what is more, take part in
it.

But a time came when one of the girls could never return to St.
Hilda's and the other, people said, did not care to sit in the old
seat without her. They said she missed her friend and was more cut up
than any one else at the sudden death of one so fair and lovely.

When Maggie took her place in the old stall to-day more than one
person turned to look at her with interest.

Maggie always made a picturesque effect; she wore a large hat, with a
drooping plume of feathers; her dress was very rich and dark; her fair