Perhaps the pure passion and abounding humanity of its spirit moved her.

Perhaps by this time she was the thrall of her own song.
Perhaps she had caught the look of wonder and admiration on the face of Morris, and was determined to show him that she had other music at command besides that of pagan death-chants.

At least, she sang up and out, till her notes dominated those of the choir, which seemed to be but an accompaniment to them; till they beat against the ancient roof and down the depth of the long nave, to be echoed back as though from the golden trumpets of the angels that stood above the tower screen; till even the village children ceased from whispers and playing to listen open-mouthed.
"And then for those, our dearest and best, By this prevailing Presence we appeal; O! fold them closer to Thy mercy's breast, O! do Thine utmost, for their souls' true weal; From tainting mischief keep them white and clear, And crown Thy gifts with strength to persevere." It was as her voice lingered upon the deep tones of these last words that suddenly Stella seemed to become aware that practically she was singing a solo; that at any rate no one else in the congregation was contributing a note.

Then she was vexed, or perhaps a panic took her; at least, not another word of that hymn passed her lips.

In vain the organist paused and looked round indignantly; the little boys, the clerk, and the stout coach-builder were left to finish it by themselves, with results that by contrast were painful.
When Stella came out of church, redraped in the antique and unbecoming fichu, she found herself the object of considerable attention.