Again Mr. Craig wandered on through his changing chords till again he
came to familiar ground, and the voice began, in low, thrilling tones,
Bernard's great song of home--
'Jerusalem the golden.'
Every word, with all its weight of meaning, came winging to our souls,
till we found ourselves gazing afar into those stately halls of Zion,
with their daylight serene and their jubilant throngs. When the singer
came to the last verse there was a pause. Again Mr. Craig softly played
the interlude, but still there was no voice. I looked up. She was very
white, and her eyes were glowing with their deep light. Mr. Craig looked
quickly about, saw her, stopped, and half rose, as if to go to her,
when, in a voice that seemed to come from a far-off land, she went on--
'O sweet and blessed country!'
The longing, the yearning, in the second 'O' were indescribable. Again
and again, as she held that word, and then dropped down with the cadence
in the music, my heart ached for I knew not what.
The audience were sitting as in a trance.
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