THE LITTLE CHURCH. 29 1 



but I will tell what it was. Do you remember — per- 

 haps you don't, for I have forgotten myself — who painted 

 that St. Cecilia seated at the organ, which I used to ad- 

 mire so much in Florence, but her face was the very 

 face of that picture, and I would have given much for a 

 photograph of it that instant as she looked up and 

 sang. And then all the people sang, as I have not heard 

 for years, and while they sang the old sad years went 

 over me in a deep strong wave, and I was in the company 

 of the dear ones of old times, never to come back again — 

 never — never. How many are gone to God with whom 

 we used to sing hymns in the Sabbath evenings ! And 

 so it has come to pass that hymns which we then loved 

 as full of hope and cheer are now inexpressibly sad, and 

 we almost weep to hear them. 



Then one and another and another of the little assem- 

 bly prayed, and we came out into the last of the sunlight, 

 and the land was lying blessed by it, beautiful beyond de- 

 scription. And then we drove up the mountains, looking 

 all the while up to their lofty tops as we ascended, and the 

 light became purple and gold on the hills, like the robes 

 of Solomon. 



And I looked at Lafayette and saw the gorge of the 

 White Cross, down which the water in summer pours into 

 the brook which joins the outlet of Echo Lake, and this 

 brook in the gorge looked like a mountain path going 

 right up to the summit. All the way I had my eyes on 

 that path, and followed up it the slow footsteps of one 

 who was ascending the hill of life, and who at last reached 

 the top and went on into the blue above. 



The forest opened before us as we ascended, and at 

 length we entered the gloom. But the last rays of the 

 sun were shining through the trees, and here and there a 



