It was also the custom to sing the last verse as loudly as possible, though this is by no means invariably appropriate.

It fitted the present occasion fairly enough.
From where I stood I could see the bellows-blower (the magnetic current of enthusiasm flowed even to the back of the organ) nerve himself to prodigious pumping--Charlie's sister drew out all the stops--the vicar passed from the prayer-desk to the pulpit with the rapt look of a man who walks in a prophetic dream--we pulled ourselves together, Master Isaac brought the hymn book close to his glasses, and when the tantalizing prelude was past we burst forth with a volume which merged all discrepancies.

As far as I am able to judge of my own performance, I fear I _bawled_ (I'm sure the boy behind me did), "Father of Heaven, in Whom our hopes confide, Whose power defends us, and Whose precepts guide, In life our Guardian, and in death our Friend, Glory supreme be Thine till time shall end!" The sermon was short, and when the service was over Master Isaac and I spent a delightful afternoon with his bees among the heather.

The "evening star" had come out when we had some tea in the village inn, and we walked home by moonlight.

There was neither wind nor sun, but the air was almost oppressively pure.