ds can be
produced from the awful and terrifying instrument that for years has
served to electrify the ears of those unfortunate enough to possess
sittings in the church. It has at last failed!

One memorable Sunday it groaned aloud,--then squeaked mildly;
cr--r--r--k went something in its inside; there was a final shriek,
more weird than the former, and then all was still! How thankful
should they have been for that! I believe they were truly and devoutly
so, but love for the "heavenly maid" still reigned in all their
hearts, and with joy they hearkened to their vicar when he suggested
the idea of a concert to be given for the purpose of raising funds
wherewith to purchase a new organ, or, at least, to help to purchase
it. The very thought was enough to raise high Jubilee within their
musical hearts.

Now, the one good thing still belonging to Mrs. Redmond is the remains
of what must once have been a very beautiful voice. With this she
possesses the power of imparting to others her own knowledge of
music,--a rather rare gift. With her own children, of course, she can
do nothing; they are veritable dead-letters in her hands,--she being
one of those women who spend their lives admonishing and thrusting
advice upon the world, yet find themselves unequal to the government
of their own household. But with the village choir all is different;
here she reigns supreme, and is made much of, for Pullingham is
decidedly musical, and all its young men and all its young women
either sing, or think they sing, or long after singing.

Tenors, sopranos, and basses are to be met with round every corner;
the very air is thick with them. The Pullinghamites _will_ sing,
whether they can or not, with a go and a gusto that speaks well for
their lungs, if a trifle trying to the listeners.

Vocal music being the thing held highest in favor in the Methodist
chapel, where Mr. Leatham, the "Methody" parson, holds unorthodox
services, many were the seceders from the parish church to join the
choir in the whitewashed chapel and shout the hymns of Moody and
Sankey, just at the commencement of this story.

Such secessions went nigh to breaking Mr. Redmond's heart. The organ
had failed him; it had wheezed, indeed, valiantly to the last, as
though determined to die game; but a day had come, as I said, when it
breathed its last sigh and the ancient bellows refused to produce
another note.

What was to be done? The villagers should and would have