In another moment they were all grouped round the ancient instrument of Charles the Second's day, and Cicely, keeping her hands well pressed on the jingling ivory keys, managed to evoke from them something like a faint, far-off organ-like sound. Falteringly at first, and then more clearly and steadily, as Cicely's full round voice assisted them, the children sang-"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me down to lie In pleasant fields where the lilies grow, And the river runneth by."

Maryllia listened, watching them. The declining sunlight, pale as it was, shed luminance upon the awkward stumpy boys, and bashfully shrinking girls, as with round, affectionate eyes fixed upon her, they went on tunefully-"The Lord is my Shepherd; He feedeth me, In the depth of a desert land, And, lest I should in the darkness slip, He holdeth me by the hand.

"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, My mind on Him is stayed, And though through the Valley of Death I walk, I shall not be afraid!"

Here, something like a sob interrupted the melody. Some one in the little choir broke down,--but Cicely covered the break with a tender chord, and the young voices rose above it.

"The Lord is my Shepherd; O Shepherd sweet, Leave me not here to stray, But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold, And keep me there, I pray!"