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of an escort home, no matter how she got there! It was the day of corn-huskings, and apple-bees, and quiltings and barn-raisings; but for real enjoyment and sound benefit the singing-school surpassed them all.

Imagine the hard wooden benchesthe desks of the day-scholars, looking like a line of barracks; the room, small, square and low-posted, lighted by candles that each singing pilgrim has brought. teacher tunes up his instrument, turns over the pages of the Handel and Haydn singing-book, strikes his tuning-fork and calls on all to "sound the chord." The plainest sort of instruction is given in "Do-re-mi," care being taken to sing only half-notes; and then the school soars away

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Cherubini, Nauman, Marcello, Mehul, Himmel, Winter, Weber, Rossini, and other eminent composers; then came Mason's books and the works of Zeuner, Bradbury, Greatorex and Warren, which have formed the connecting link with the sacred music of to-day.

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The Church has had its poets; just

THE COUNTER SOLOIST.

"The Free Grace" has established his reputation; thenceforth he need not solicit pupils, because the pupils will seek him. In this simple way the teachers and the pupils plodded through the book, and were content to master a few tunes and anthems written "in four bars." There was no change till 1835, when Lowell Mason put forth his "Choir" -a work including many beautiful subjects from the works of Haydn, Mozart,

as the camp of every age has had its Tyrtæus, the court its Pindar. Every hymn-writer has reflected the religious spirit of the age in which he lived. In our day we rejoice in the measures of Faber, Keble and Heber in England, and of Croswell, Schaff and countless others in America; but the standard of our fathers, for many years, was "Watts and Select," with its hymns of selfexamination, sorand doubt; and yet the choirs and the singingschools did not always give us "Complaint" and "Before Jehovah's Awful Throne ; they also gave "Coronation," "Sherburne," "Boston" and "Majesty." They sang the more joyful strains of "Jesus Shall Reign Where'erthe Sun," "Strike the Cym

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bal," "How Long, Dear Saviour, Oh, How Long?" "Fly Like a Youthful Hart or Roe," "While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night," "Sound the Loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's Dark Sea."

They found relief in fugueing tunes, that often gave a most startling effect: "And Take Thy Pil- and Take Thy Pil

and Take Thy Pilgrim Home," "And
in the Pi-and in the Pi- and in the
Pious He Delights," "And Learn to
Kiss- and Learn to Kiss- and Learn to
Kiss the Rod,"
""Stir up this Stu- Stir
up this Stu- Stir up this Stupid Heart,"
"And More Eggs- and More Eggs- and
More Exalt our Joys;" but the climax
of sentiment and good singing was
reached when the choir or singing-
school took up a verse like this:

True love is like that precious oil
Which, poured on Aaron's head,
Ran down his beard and o'er his robes
Its costly moisture shed.

It was not strange that Bishop Seabury wondered whether Aaron would have any hair left after he had been treated thus by the choir:

Its costly moist-ran down his beard--
Ure beard-his-beard-his-shed-
Ran down his beard-his-down his robes-
Its costly moist-his beard-ure shed-
His cost-ure robes-his robes-his shed-
I-t-s-c-o-s-t-l-y-moist-ure-s-h-e-d.

After many failures the choirs learned that it was best not to be too ambitious, even in sacred music. As to the singing of the congregation, it was discovered that the notes should be of equal length, that the range should not extend beyond middle C to C or D above. Then came a reaction in favor of plainer music, and "Mear," "Dundee," "China," "Old Hundred," were prominent. As the singing-school faded from sight, the quartette choir appeared on the musical horizon.

As memory goes back, it gathers in the later and more dreamy strains of Ole Bull's "Cantabile Doloroso" and "Carnival of Venice," or the more brilliant touches of Vieuxtemps; and yet it rates the singing-school master as superior to them both, although he never

went beyond the "Caliph of Bagdad, and never rode a bicycle on the E string of his "fiddle." As we listen to the orchestras of Zerrahn, Thomas or Damrosch, to the fugues in E, or G, minor, on the great organs; to the more delicate touches of a Thalberg, a Gottschalk, or a Pease, or to the heavy pounding of the piano by the "accomplished " young lady of to-day, we must, after all, favor the orchestral accompaniment of the choir of long ago. Compared with that, the chorus by the choir, what were Keller's "Hymn of Peace," or the divine oratorios rendered by a thousand voices? What were even the "Gloria" or the "Qui Tollis" from the Twelfth Mass of Mozart? Then, as you hear a single voice roaming through the great space and imploring the Angels Ever Bright and Fair, Take, Oh Take Me to your Care," you wonder why the angels do not take the singer away and spare Handel's gem from any further malice: and even when Nilsson, or Patti, or Kellogg, climbs to those dizzy heights of music and stays defiantly there, you may yield them the palm of altitude, but you cannot think any singer equal to dear old Lucy B who could "sing counter," and, as the master said, "hit it every time," although it ranged above the soprano.

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They do not write the score for counter to-day, because it ranges too high except for angels' voices. It has been dropped an octave, and now it is called "contralto." That angelic voice was laid away long ago-for Lucy B was your grandmother, and with her you had to "bid a last farewell" to the singing-school, the village choir, and many other of the "Joys We've Loved so Long." Henceforth they must live in memory alone.

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CHAPTER VII.

CONTINUED.

HERE!" said the land-
lady, sinking into a
chair; "I told you
so!"

This remark was
addressed to her hus-
band, who entered at
that moment in top-
boots, with а rifle

slung across his shoulders, and a tall, white pen-feather stuck jauntily in the band of his gray felt hat. But his gamebag hung very limp.

He had been visible only a moment before riding up to the door; one of those superb horsemen one sees in Italy, where the men are centaurs. They are the best horsemen in the world, especially men of the middle class and those brought up in the country. Much use of the carriage spoils the horseman. It is not that these men are more showy in the chase, or sit on their horses better than some soldiers of other lands; but they do not seem to know that there is a horse under them.

Certain appreciative glances from a lady across the street had sent the landlord into the house with the complacent smile and protruding breast of rampant vanity; but his wife's withering finger of scorn produced a sudden change and collapse. He had but three larks in the bag, he was obliged to confess; and he poured the poor little gray songsters out before her.

"It is your fault," he declared, like a true son of Adam. "I told you to find me some bits of looking-glass to put on the civetta's head; and you were too superstitious to break one bit into three. The others had their civette all of a glitter; and the birds came about them in clouds."

There's a civetta who has got looking-glass enough, and the reflection of her face is enough to break one into a

thousand pieces," cried the landlady, glancing through the window and across the way. And rising, she closed the shutters with a bang.

"Perhaps she would give me some supper," remarked the landlord, taking a step to retire from the contest.

"No, Signore!" said his wife, and shutting the door, she set her broad back against it.

Then she shouted out her orders to some one half visible at the end of a long passage: "Take these larks and cook them, Nanna. Send Giacomo down into the cellar for some wine [she expressed it, caccià da bè], and tell him to bring up the stracchino. Checca, bring the soup for your father. I put rice in it to-day," softening, and leaving her post at the door. "And would you like two eggs in tegamino? They are just laid."

The storm was over, and they sat down to table the best friends in the world.

Their guest passed the sad hours alone. Europe had suddenly lost all its color for his mind; and home, unforgotten, but long blurred in its outlines by nearer scenes, came up before him with almost startling distinctness. He saw the faces and heard the voices. The past, with a hundred trivial incidents, came up before him, and people long since dead occupied the scenes that had known them in life. Mrs. Nelson's form appeared without any apparent reason; and without any apparent reason, too, a chain of forgotten incidents connected with her came up, link by link, till they snapped as with a spark of electricity.

"Why! the little girl was the child we brought here ten years ago!" he said. "Yes, they called her Beatrice. Why didn't I think!"

He had come up to Ombra for a day only because his journey led him that way, merely recollecting that he had been there before; and his visit to Fran

* Copyright, 1888, by Mary Agnes Tincker. [BEGUN IN THE APRIL ISSUE.]

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cesco Alinori had been simply a coincidence. Now he recollected all, and wondered at his forgetfulness.

The Sor Teresa Lanciani had died just before he came abroad the second time, Mrs. Nelson had told him, holding an Italian letter in her hand, when he went to take leave of her; and she had begged him to see the child, if he should ever be in her vicinity. It was too late now; for in the morning he must set off on his return to America. He was so impatient to go that he could scarcely content himself to wait till morning. He felt himself smitten with a sudden sense of being needed at home.

In the morning he started, traveling through a splendid daybreak, topaz all over the sky; while in his soul all was shadow and sadness.

At Florence he bought a pretty turquoise ring "I am a rich man now," he sighed and enclosed it in a note to the Signor Francesco Alinori, begging him to give it to Beatrice with his good wishes and excuses.

"A girl likes a ring better than a more useful thing," he said. "Indeed, it is useful, if it makes her happy for a moment." He recollected that the child had had a sober, neglected look.

"It never rains but it pours," says the proverb. Just as the doctor was leaving London for Liverpool, a second mourning letter reached him. It was from Francis Elder, and was stained with tears. It announced to him the death of Dr. Martin, his father.

Crushed and dazed with grief, he embarked upon the ocean, which seemed to him a fit emblem of all earthly things, forever wandering, forever moaning, and forever bitter.

CHAPTER VIII.

A FAIRY GOD-FATHER.

The Selwyn homestead was one of the pleasantest old places in Southport. It was a square mansion set in the midst of gardens, the white fence on the street almost hidden in roses, and a row of elms outside. Three beautiful elms, named the Three Sisters, made a shady arbor in the midst of the garden, their tall, straight trunks supporting a mass of fountain-like verdure, tossed and

drooping, far above the table and chairs kept always below. A low divan had been built around each of these trunks; and many a pleasant reunion had been held there on summer mornings or moonlighted evenings.

There were fruit-trees and a stable farther back, and a kitchen garden quite out of sight.

Everything about the place was in perfect order on a lovely June morning of the year following Dr. James Martin's return to America; but it needed all the verdure that grew there to hide the discolored walls and railings, where only a speckling of white was left. The inside of the house was unmistakably shabby, though exquisitely neat; and only at the soft twilight hour could a ghost of those once charming rooms be seen.

The Selwyns, mother, son and daughter, had just finished their breakfast, and were sitting around the table in silence. One would have judged from their expression that they had a depressing sense of nothing to do.

There was no other

person in the house. Mrs. Selwyn and Edith did their own work. Patrick, a servant of their better days, came every morning to work in the garden, bring them wood and draw the water. No one but themselves knew that his sole remuneration was the produce of a half of the land which he cultivated for himself. The Selwyn dignity was sacred to this faithful soul.

Mrs. Selwyn was a fragile, delicatelooking woman, with thin gray hair, sunken eyes, and "brow ruled like a score. Her slender shoulders were bent, her small hands scarred by labor. The time was long past when she had washed her dishes at arm's length with a swab, and handled pots and kettles with oldgloves on to protect her fair fingers. All this rough work fell to her; for Edith must do the sewing and mending; and she had two pupils in drawing, and was trying to get a few in piano music.

Edith was, evidently, the strongest character of the three. But she looked helpless, because she looked starved.

The patients had not come, and the family's needs were pressing. The remains of breakfast on the table showed it. They had had rye coffee, corn bread, and some pieces of salted fish.

The table was clean; but many of the articles which had once adorned it were seen no more. They had been changed into food and clothing. All the silver they had left was an old candlestick and a few teaspoons. The mate to that candlestick had gone to pay Mr. Selwyn's funeral expenses.

The young doctor sat with downcast eyes. His cheeks were pale and hollow, his eyes fevered. He seemed to be lingering to say something which he had not the courage to say. Their taxes were overdue, and he had been urged to sell the place. How could he tell them? It would kill his mother to leave the house. It would also, he felt sure, ruin his own hopes. If there was any chance for him, it was in keeping a firm hold on the remains of their social standing and its outward signs. Banished to a cheap apartment on a back street, he would fall out of sight entirely.

Besides, as if his misfortunes were not already enough, the poor boy had fallen in love with Alice Blake, old Doctor Blake's granddaughter, and presumptive heiress. Then, crowning all, he was hungry.

James Martin had carried all before him in Southport. The young ladies smiled upon him, the old ladies praised him, and children were proud to be ill and have him come and pinch their cheeks, and tell them that he would have them well in less than no time. Charles Selwyn had seen him only the evening before, walking with Alice Blake in her grandfather's garden.

Mrs. Selwyn glanced at her son with an expression of dread. She had a painful, though familiar, proposition to make. Since he remained silent, she stretched out a trembling hand, and gathered up their six silver spoons. Edith understood the movement, hardened her face, and waited.

As they hung on that last instant of silence, as a heart hangs that in another moment will break, the latch of the garden gate was heard opening and shutting. At that sound their faces changed. Mrs. Selwyn dropped the spoons from her shaking hand, the young doctor started and reddened nervously, and Edith sprang up and went to the window.

"It is Doctor Martin," she said.

The other two faces fell, but hers dwelt for a minute with an earnest gaze on the face of their visitor.

He stood in a garden-path, looking about him. Alice Blake had said to him the evening before: "You complain that the Selwyns are ceremonious with you, and that Charles does not come to your house. Do you expect compliments from people who are starving, soul and body, and too proud to complain? I wonder they have the heart to be civil to anybody!"

And thereupon had followed a long conversation between the two, who were too good friends ever to become lovers.

The doctor was shocked at what he learned. Poor, gentle martyrs! This, then, was the meaning of their reserve! They were simply dying!

This information was like the snowdrift that goes to increase a rolling ball.

Doctor James Martin's mind was much more burdened in those days than any one would have imagined. He seemed the gayest of the gay. Sunshine surrounded him, success crowned him, and opposition shrank before his stalwart form and bright, direct eyes. He seemed to carry a breeze with him, and to have more life than he knew how to use in his present mode of existence. He took long walks, he sawed wood, he pruned trees, and after a snowy winter's night he might have been seen at early dawn shoveling the snow off the sidewalk. When the grass began to grow, he shaved the lawn.

He had worked off a good deal of mental irritation, as well as superfluous life, in this way. At the bottom of his heart he was more than discontented; he felt that alarm, daily increasing, of one who sees himself losing some precious thing which he can never regain. He was surfeited with flattery, and ashamed of the excess of his popularity, which made him seem to himself almost an impostor. What they admired in him was not what he knew to be admirable; and what he most earnestly knew to be best, they did not understand, or were indifferent to. They liked him because he was handsome, accomplished, agreeable and successful; he wanted them to like his ideas.

Doctor Martin was a doctor all through, even to his shadow. He had a passion for leaving things better than he found

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