are never heard. Finally came Dr. Vincent, his strong decided voice
breaking the spell, and helping them to realize that they ware men and
women with work to do:

"Now, my friends," he said, "we really _must_ go home; it is hard to
close; I know that, no one knows it better: we _have_ closed a good many
times, and it won't _stay_ closed. The last word has been said over and
over again. I said it myself, some time ago, and here I am again: we
must just _stop_, never mind the closing; we will ring a hymn, and go
away, and next year we will begin right here, where we left it."

But he didn't "stop," and no one wanted him to. His voice grew tender,
and his words were solemn. The last words that he would ever speak to
many a soul within sound of his voice; it could not be otherwise. You
can imagine better than I could tell you what Dr. Vincent's message
would be at such a time as that.

Breaking into it, came the shrill sound of the whistle. The Col.
Phillips--the last boat for the night--was giving out its warning. The
Chautauqua bells began their parting peal. Not even for his own
convenience would that marvel of punctuality have the bells tarry a
moment behind the hour appointed.

Our girls looked at each other and made signs, and nodded, and began to
slip quietly out. They had arranged to spend the night at the Mayville
House, and take an early train. Many others were softly and reluctantly
moving away. They were very quiet during that last walk down to the
wharf. Glorious moonlight was abroad, and the water shone like a sheet
of silver.