glorious voice floated out on the evening air, filling the whole world
with sweetest melody. Miss Vesta dropped her knitting and folded her
hands, while a peaceful, dreamy look stole into her fine face,--a face
whose only fault was the too eager look which a New England woman must
so often gain, whether she will or no. In the quiet chamber, the
bedridden woman lay back on her pillows smiling, with a face as the
face of an angel. Her thoughts were lifted up on the wings of the
music, and borne--who shall say where, to what high and holy presence?
Perhaps--who can tell?--the eyes of her soul looked in at the gate of
heaven itself; if it were so, be sure they saw nothing within that
white portal more pure and clear than their own gaze.

And still the song flowed on. Presently doors began to open along the
village street. People came softly out, came on tiptoe toward the
cottage, and with a silent greeting to its owner sat down beside the
road to listen. Children came dancing, with feet almost as light as
Melody's own, and curled themselves up beside her on the grass.
Tired-looking mothers came, with their babies in their arms; and the
weary wrinkles faded from their faces, and they listened in silent
content, while the little ones, who perhaps had been fretting and
complaining a moment before, nestled now quietly against the
mother-breast, and felt that no one wanted to tease or ill-treat them,
but that the world was all full of Mother, who loved them. Beside one
of these women a man came and sat him down, as if from habit; but he
did not look at her. His face wore a weary, moody frown, and he stared
at the ground sullenly, taking no note of any one. The others looked
at one another and nodded, and thought of the things they knew; the
woman cast a sidelong glance at him, half hopeful, half fearful, but
made no motion.