ing to vote for Lincoln. The visitor wondered
vaguely what kind of Scotch that might be. He
had no chance to ask. The mother seemed to have
read every word of the last Tribune. He had
hardly time for that himself. She seemed a
woman of wide information. Apparently she
knew the position of every unit of the army.

Supper was over. Flora handed her father The
Book, and moved the candle near him. He found
the place, and said,

"The twenty-third Psalm."

To the man's surprise, the mother began the
song in a clear, sure voice, and the children all
joined, without hesitation, as if this was a part of
a familiar routine. The boys and girls were obvi-
ously thinking of the guests of honor. The
mother's face was turned to her son. But the
father was looking away in a dream to something
he seemed to see through the wall before him.
When the singing was over, he began reading from
The Book words that clearly had some exalted
meaning to him, though what it might be the
stranger could not imagine. "Lift up your heads,
O ye gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors,
and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this
King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the
Lord mighty in battle." It sounded impressive,
read with a subdued ring in the voice. Then he
shut the book, in a high silence, and they all moved
their chairs back, and knelt down. The stranger
knelt, too, somewhat tardily. Not that he objected

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