Upon the return of Armstrong, all traces of violent emotion had disappeared, and given place to exhaustion and lassitude.  Faith had, by this time, become so accustomed to the variable humors of her father, that, however much they pained her, she was no longer alarmed by them as formerly.  It was her habit, whenever he was attacked by his malady, to endeavor to divert his attention from melancholy thoughts to others of a more cheerful character.  And now, on this day, so fraught with horrors of which she was ignorant, although the silence of the unhappy man interrupted by fits of starting, and inquiries of the time o’clock, revealed to her that he was suffering to an unusual degree, she attempted the same treatment which, in more than one instance, had seemed to be attended with a beneficial effect.  Armstrong was peculiarly sensitive to music, and it was to his love of it that she now trusted to chase away his gloom.  When, therefore, in the evening, she had vainly endeavored to engage him in conversation, receiving only monosyllables in return, she advanced to the piano, and inquired if he would not like to hear her sing?

“Sing! my child?” said Armstrong, as if at first not understanding the question; “Oh, yes—­let me hear you sing.”

Faith opened the piano, and turning over the leaves of a music book, and selecting a sacred melody as best befitting the mood of her father, sung, with much sweetness and expression, the following lines: 

  How shall I think of Thee, eternal Fountain
    Of earthly joys and boundless hopes divine,
  Of Thee, whose mercies are beyond recounting,
    To whom unnumbered worlds in praises shine?

  I see thy beauty in the dewy morning,
    And in the purple sunset’s changing dyes;
  Thee I behold the rainbow’s arch adorning;
    Thee in the starry glories of the skies.

  The modest flower, low in the green grass blushing,
    The wondrous wisdom of the honey bee,
  The birds’ clear joy in streams of music gushing,
    In sweet and varied language tell of Thee.

  All things are with Thy loving presence glowing,
    The worm as well as the bright, blazing star;
  Out of Thine infinite perfection flowing,
    For Thine own bliss and their delight THEY ARE.

  But chiefly in the pure and trusting spirit,
    Is Thy choice dwelling-place, Thy brightest throne. 
  The soul that loves shall all of good inherit,
   For Thou, O God of love art all its own.

  Upon Thine altar I would lay all feeling,
    Subdued and hallowed to Thy perfect will,
  Accept these tears, a thankful heart revealing,
    A heart that hopes, that trembles, and is still.