When such visitations occurred out of school hours, and I remained up in
my room, as I frequently did at first, the droppers in felt very much
aggrieved, as though I had wittingly offended the instincts of good
society.
Besides all which, seldom an evening passed that the young people did not
come to the Ark _en masse_ to sing.
Then Madeline or Rebecca, or (very rarely) I propelled a strain of
doubtful melody from Madeline's little melodeon, while the singers--boys
and girls together--chimed in, joyfully rendering with a perfect
fearlessness of utterance and deep intensity of expression such songs as
"Go, bury thy sorrow, the world hath its share," and "Jesus, keep me near
the cross," and "Whiter than snow, yes, whiter than snow; now wash me,
and I shall be whiter than snow."
They knew no other songs. They would sing through a large proportion of
the Moody and Sankey Hymnal in a single evening.
At first I listened half amused or thoroughly wearied. But, as the
strains grew more familiar and I sang occasionally with the others, I
felt each day more tired and more conscious of my own incompetency. And
still the Words rang in my ears; "I hear the Saviour say, thy strength
indeed is small;" with much about trusting in Him, and his willingness to
bear it all.
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