The Old Lady looked at her in a rapture of satisfied longing and
thenceforth the service was blessed to her, as anything is blessed which
comes through the medium of unselfish love, whether human or divine.
Nay, are they not one and the same, differing in degree only,
not in kind?
The Old Lady had never had such a good, satisfying look at
Sylvia before. All her former glimpses had been stolen and fleeting.
Now she sat and gazed upon her to her hungry heart's content,
lingering delightedly over every little charm and loveliness--
the way Sylvia's shining hair rippled back from her forehead,
the sweet little trick she had of dropping quickly her
long-lashed eyelids when she encountered too bold or curious
a glance, and the slender, beautifully modelled hands--
so like Leslie Gray's hands--that held her hymn book.
She was dressed very plainly in a black skirt and a white shirtwaist;
but none of the other girls in the choir, with all their fine feathers,
could hold a candle to her--as the egg pedlar said to his wife,
going home from church.
The Old Lady listened to the opening hymns with keen pleasure.
Sylvia's voice thrilled through and dominated them all.
But when the ushers got up to take the collection, an undercurrent
of subdued excitement flowed over the congregation.
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