until the night-dews clung in drops upon her hair; then she went in to
bed, still wrapped about with the drapery of her dreams.

Next morning, when Dorcas carried in her father's breakfast, she walked
with a springing step, and spoke in a voice so full and fresh it made
her newly glad.

"It's a nice day, father! There'll be lots of folks out to meeting."

"That's a good girl!" This was his commendation, from hour to hour; it
made up the litany of his gratitude for what she had been to him. "But
I dunno's I feel quite up to preachin' to-day, Dorcas!"

"That'll be all right, father. We'll get somebody."

"You bring me out my sermon-box after breakfast, an' I'll pick out
one," said he, happily. "Deacon Tolman can read it."

But, alas! Deacon Tolman had been dead this many a year!

A little later, the parson sat up in bed, shuffling his manuscript
about with nervous hands, and Dorcas, in the kitchen, stood washing her
breakfast dishes. That eager interest in living still possessed her.
She began humming, in a timid monotone. Her voice had the clearness of
truth, with little sweetness; and she was too conscious of its
inadequacy to use it in public, save under the compelling force of
conscience. Hitherto, she had only sung in Sunday-school, moved, as in
everything, by the pathetic desire of "doing her part;" but this
morning seemed to her one for lifting the voice, though not in Sunday
phrasing. After a little thought, she began thinly and sweetly,--