"Oh, I'm all right just now. I was thinking of your god-mother's letter.
She remembered, she said, the hymns you used to sing. You've never sung any
of them to us, Paula."
I saw a mist in Paula's eyes as she answered. "No, that's true. I don't
think I've sung a note since my father's death. Would you like to hear me
sing?"
"Yes, indeed," said Catalina, without noticing Paula's emotion.
I was on the point of reminding them of father's formal prohibition
relative to hymn-singing, but an imperative sign from Catalina stopped me.
"What do you wish me to sing?" said Paula.
"Anything you care to. It's all the same to me."
"Then," said Paula, "I will sing to you, 'No Night There.'" And then to our
unaccustomed ears came the glorious words:
In the land of fadeless day,
Lies the city four-sqare,
It shall never pass away,
And there is no night there.
"God shall wipe away all tears;
There's no death, no pain, nor fears;
And they count not time by years,
For there is no night there.
Paula had that rare gift, the "golden" voice, a voice that seemed to
penetrate to one's very soul. Catalina was enchanted!
Suddenly, I heard the heavy steps of a man coming along the corridor.
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