December, 1915 
9 
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THE SURE, SHARP ROAD 
MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS 
Illustrated by Ada Williamson 
f * T?IFTY-NINTH hymn. Hymn number fifty-nine.” 
X 1 A short pause, the rustling of leaves of many hymnals, 
then the organist began dreamily, indefinitely — as if one heard 
from two thousand years ago an echo out of skies over mid¬ 
night fields — the melody. The vast congregation stood en¬ 
tranced. A many-toned volume swung full, one 
marvelous voice, into the vaulted and green-gar¬ 
landed stained dimness of the great church. 
‘‘It came upon the midnight clear, 
That glorious song of old, 
From angels bending near the earth 
To touch their harps of gold.” 
The choir sang it; the congregation, carried 
away, startled out of their gay or busy or com¬ 
fortable or tired lives by the rush of the hymn, 
sang with them; the mass of lovely sound lifted 
and filled the high, vague roofs. 
The organ rippled an interlude, a rhythm of 
bells rang through it; then from the white crowd 
of the choir rose a voice, a woman’s voice, effort¬ 
less as a bird’s. 
“Peace on the earth, to men good will 
From Heaven’s all-gracious King! 
Oh, rest beside the weary way, 
And hear the angels sing.” 
Through the huge church people stood breath¬ 
less. One forgot time and place. Everywhere 
faces lifted, transfigured, to meet something which 
might be felt, which was felt to be present among 
them with a glory. The voice soared on; the 
choir took up the song, and the angelic note rose 
above the rest, till in an echo, a far-away strain, 
the hymn was done. It was as if the skies had 
closed on the angels. 
P EOPLE sat down dazed; in many eyes 
were tears. Alice Sefton bit her lip 
as she dropped into the corner of a small 
pew. She had not wanted to be touched by 
the music; she was disconcerted to feel hot 
tears on her cheek. It made it worse to have her sister Bertha 
lean closer and slip a hand into hers. She stiffened, and 
Bertha’s hand was withdrawn. But it had stirred thoughts 
and memories. 
She thought how she and Bertha were alone, all in all to 
each other; she remembered old gloomy Christmas 
times which they had tried to brighten for each 
other; she remembered the father now dead, who 
had begrudged the money for what all other 
girls might have and do. Their mother had al¬ 
ways been dead it seemed, and the sisters had 
grown up within a numbing circle of rigid and 
unnecessary economy. For they read, and it was 
embittering to read in the papers, the large sums 
made by Charles Sefton, and to know that Charles 
Sefton’s daughters might have hardly enough for 
ordinary decencies. 
Bertha, the elder, was yielding, not strong of 
body or character; she had been resigned early. 
But Alice resented the injustice, the lack of op¬ 
portunities; till one day there had been a stormy 
scene and Alice had come off with the promise 
that she should learn stenography and be able to 
make money for herself. She had worked hard 
and done well and found a certain contentment 
in this expression of herself. Then had come the 
love affair, for Alice had some charm and a ruddy 
beauty at times of red gold hair and fresh color. 
But the love affair was unlucky; she had blamed 
her father for that, too. She remembered her fa¬ 
ther’s death; the first hideous feeling of relief she 
had choked down; then the knowledge that for all 
of his hoarding and his skill at gambling in stocks, 
the end had been loss; the two were not to be rich 
even now, with youth gone. But there was a 
small fortune of their mother’s of which they had 
never heard; so that they were taken care of. 
They had settled down six years ago in a 
charming small house, and Alice had de¬ 
veloped a gift for old furniture which made 
it more charming. That morning at the 
Christmas breakfast table there had been a 
