This morning he could hear her noble voice rising a
little above, or, perhaps from its quality, separating itself
somehow, ever so little, from the others. How full of strength
and hope it was, her voice! How steadfast to the pitch; how
golden its color; how moving in its crescendos! How the words
flowed from her lips; not as if they had been written years ago,
but as if they were the expression of her own faith. There were
many in the congregation who were stirred, they knew not why,
when there chanced to be only a few "carrying the air" and they
could really hear Waitstill Baxter singing some dear old hymn,
full of sacred memories, like:-
"While Thee I seek, protecting Power,
Be my vain wishes stilled!
And may this consecrated hour
With better hopes be filled."
"There may be them in Boston that can sing louder, and they may
be able to run up a little higher than Waitstill, but the
question is, could any of 'em make Aunt Abby Cole shed tears?"
This was Jed Morrill's tribute to his best soprano.
There were Sunday evening prayer-meetings, too, held at "early
candlelight," when Waitstill and Lucy Morrill would make a duet
of "By cool Siloam's Shady Rill," or the favorite "Naomi," and
the two fresh young voices, rising and falling in the tender
thirds of the old tunes, melted all hearts to new willingness of
sacrifice.
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