It was thus that she saw him to-night, and, as if she meant to preserve the wild romantic feeling, she played and sang the whole hymn over again in her loud, flat voice. She was wildly happy, for in the end it seemed that Philip really belonged to her, and that they were alone once more by the lake at Megambo. They weren't even missionaries and Swanson wasn't there. And he loved her.
When she had finished, the spell clung to her until the last chord, held deliberately by the use of the loud pedal, died away, leaving her weak and exhausted, and prey suddenly to the horrible, sickening depression. She let her head fall forward on the piano. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't cry, because people would be coming in at any moment. And suddenly she felt the touch of a hand on her shoulder and a voice saying, "That was splendid, Mrs. Downes! That's the sort of music that will bring them to the Lord!"
It was the Reverend Castor. He had come in quietly, without a sound, and had been sitting there all the while listening to her while she desecrated the sanctity of a hymn with all her fleshly emotions. She tried to gain control of herself, and, without looking up, mopped her eyes and nose with her handkerchief. But it was no good: when she looked up he saw that she had been crying. She was blushing with shame, and the color made her seem almost pretty.
"Why, you've been crying!" he said.
She choked, recovered herself, and answered, "Yes . . . I . . . I can't help it. . . . It always makes me cry—that hymn."
He laid a big, bony, masculine hand on her shoulder. "But you mustn't cry . . . Mrs. Downes. You
