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in the church whose surpassingly beautiful voice haunted her like the very beat, beat, beat of her blood. Again and again he sang his utterly simple verse. Now the day is over… Now the day is over…
    One afternoon Aunt Erica broke off her rambling, not very coherent chatter to smile at Magdalena puckishly with half her mouth, and exclaimed, "Dear child, are you thinking about your family? Are you lonely for your family?" And Magdalena roused herself, with a vague smile, as if not knowing where she was exactly, and said, "Oh, Aunt Erica, he has such a high, clear, strong voice. It's a man's voice, but not like one you would ever hear."
     
    Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh…
    Magdalena, come!
     
    Another afternoon of gusty clouds, distant music. Magdalena slipped away from the house on Charter Street, and retraced her steps to lower Edmundston; to the ancient church where again the mysterious singer was practicing his hymn. This time Magdalena saw that there was no sign on the front of the church; no indication of its denomination; the stone cross on its roof, crude and weather-stained, yet possessing its own primitive beauty, had partly collapsed, forming hardly more than a T. Moss grew in rakish patches on the roof of rotted shingles. There was but a single window in the building, deep set in the stained stone wall. The church must have been very poor, in such need of repair. Yet the tenor was singing as before, more deliberately perhaps, as if determined to perfect his song. Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh… Shadows of the evening steal across the sky. Magdalena heard the agitation, the passion in the voice not discernible at a distance; when the singer paused, she could hear him panting for breath. She dared to approach the alcove, her heart beating very hard, and saw at last the shadowy figure within. It was indeed a young man; a handsome young man, or so he appeared in the indistinct light; he was standing at the front of the little church near the altar, his body tense; his hands gripped into fists; tendons standing out in his neck. She felt a sensation of profound yearning pass over her, a swooning sensation of a kind she'd never before felt, as if the very earth beneath her feet were shifting; as if all volition had been drained from her. She thought I must help him!
    As the young man sang he moved his head restlessly from side to side, and ran his fingers through his hair, which was, as Magdalena had envisioned, black hair; thick, lustrous black hair. His skin was olive-pale, rather waxy; despite his beautiful voice, there was something unhealthy about him; he blinked his eyes repeatedly, as if trying to clear his vision. Magdalena came closer, waiting for him to see her. Her heart was pounding so violently she believed she might faint, yet she couldn't turn back. I must, I must help him. That's why I have come. There was a rich, ripe smell of decay inside the church, an earthy, stale smell that contrasted sharply with the smell of the outdoors and the fresh gusty air blown from the east. When the young man paused in his singing, licking his lips, Magdalena said hesitantly, "Excuse me, but—what a beautiful song. I've never heard such a beautiful song."
    The young man turned to stare at Magdalena, or in her direction. Clearly he was distracted, confused; he'd believed himself alone, and she had intruded. For a moment Magdalena feared he would ask her to leave, or turn away in anger himself; but finally he smiled, a faint, hurried smile, and returned to his singing. He was standing alone at the altar, his chin somewhat raised and his head slightly back, the tendons in his slender neck prominent as before, and his hands shut into fists. Magdalena saw his body tremble as he sang. Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh… Magdalena came closer, seeing that the young man gazed at her as he sang, through his dark, thick lashes; she thought, perhaps, he was singing to her now, as if speaking