he seated herself upon the high bench before the organ,
arranging her skirts so that they should not balk her pedalling. At first
she played softly--a wailing melody of her own devising; then, as though
she gathered strength and assurance in her music, the chords boomed out,
rich and deep, rolling down the church like the relentless waves of some
elementary force. She played on and on, not hearing through the music the
sound of the shuffling feet of the entering worshippers. It was with a
feeling of alarm that she became aware of rows of honest burghers seated
stolidly in their accustomed places. Pastor Mueller was kneeling in the
pulpit waiting for the music to cease ere he began the preliminary
prayer. She softened the chords, till they faded and ceased entirely,
then taking up a book of canticles, she studied the melodies and read
their words, for she felt she could not listen to Mueller's rasping voice
exhorting his flock to holiness and purity of living.

The harsh tones fell unheeded on her ear for some time. A sudden
cessation thereof roused her to attention, and she craned her neck over
the side of the panelled wainscot which ran round the organ-loft. She saw
the congregation attentively waiting for the pastor to give out the text
of his sermon. Mueller stood in the pulpit; an open Bible lay on the ledge
beneath one of his strong, coarse hands; the other hand grasped the
pulpit edge, and Wilhelmine could see his knuckles whitening with the
force of his grip. His face was ashy, and the deep-set eyes moved
incessantly; he was evidently in a state of that violent excitement which
sometimes seized him when he preached, and which gave him a fervid
emotional eloquence.

'For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of
grass. The grass withereth and the flower thereof falleth away. But the
word of the Lord endureth for ever. And this is the word which by the
Gospel is preached unto you.' He read his text in a husky, raucous
voice, and through the assemblage passed a wave of astonishment. This was
surely no verse for a Sunday before Christmas; it was more fitted for a
Lenten discourse! But Pastor Mueller's sermons were the only theatrical
performances given at Guestrow, and the citizens revelled in the often
startlingly emotional character of his exhortations; so that day they
settled down as usual to listen to his sermon with pleasurable curiosity.

'Brethren,' he began, 'O miserable sinners, who