It was our first funeral.

The man had died in hospital, and we had chosen a picturesque burial-place above the river, near the old church, and beside a little nameless cemetery, used by generations of slaves.

It was a regular military funeral, the coffin being draped with the American flag, the escort marching behind, and three volleys fired over the grave.

During the services there was singing, the chaplain deaconing out the hymn in their favorite way.

This ended, he announced his text,--"This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him, and delivered him out of all his trouble." Instantly, to my great amazement, the cracked voice of the chorister was uplifted, intoning the text, as if it were the first verse of another hymn.