That night a young crescent moon was hung over the very crown of Old
Harpeth as I threw the shutters of my window wide to the night breezes
after I had put out my light and was ready for bed. I stood in its soft
light and looked across to the dark mass of the chapel opposite and saw
that a dim light was still burning from the window by the organ loft.
And as I stood and looked, the empty place that I had felt in the very
center of my heart grew colder and more bleak until suddenly across the
garden on perfumed waves of sound came the Tristan love song and filled
my emptiness with a pain that was both hot and cold. I stood and let the
flood dash over me as long as I could and then with a sob I sank on the
floor and rested my head on the window seat and began to weep as only
women such as I know how to weep. Then into my sorrow very quietly there
again stole another strain after the Tristan song had sobbed away into
the night and suddenly my own weeping was stilled and again something
within me was healed by the great tender voice singing out in the
darkness beyond the hedge: "Abide with me; fast falls the eventide--
... ... ... ...
Help of the helpless, O abide with me!"
"I don't know what to do, I don't know," I cried, and sobbed myself to
sleep on my pillow after I had watched the light across the garden go
out and after all in the little parsonage beyond the hedge was dark and
quiet.