sie, so flushed and excited at the start, grew calmer as we went; and when, the summit reached, she sat down to rest on a broken board, her color was natural and she seemed to breathe freely again.
"Are they all hypocrites, do you think, Charlie?" she said suddenly, looking up into my face.
"They? who? Bessie, what have I done to make you angry?"
"You? Nothing, dear goose! I am angry at myself and at everybody else. Did it flash upon you, Charlie, what we were singing?"
Then she quoted the lines, which I will not repeat here, but they expressed, as the sole aspiration of the singer, a desire to pass eternity in singing hymns of joy and praise--an impatience for the time to come, a disregard of earth, a turning away from temporal things, and again the desire for an eternity of sacred song.
"Suppose I confess to you," said I, astonished at her earnestness, "that I did not at all know what I was singing?"
"That's just it! just what makes it so dreadful! Nobody was thinking about it--no
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