one singer in the choir. I would have taught her. She loved music
so much."

Here was an introduction sufficient for an ordinary man. At least the
organist thought so. But when he looked at the stranger he was sorry that
he had spoken, for no genial sympathy was in that face, and still less in
the voice that asked,

"Will you leave the wreath here? Where did it come from?"

The organist replied as though he did not perceive the indifference with
which the questions were asked:

"I found it in the choir," said he. "One of the children left it, may be.
Any way this is the best place for it. Dear little girl! I should hate to
think that she was really down there."

"Where, then?" asked the stranger.

"Up above, as sure as there's a heaven." As Summerman spoke, he stepped
from the frozen ground to the gravel walk, and turning his back on the
stranger he brushed a tear from his cheek.

The gentleman, whose name was Redman Rush, followed him. He was a
well-dressed person; indeed, his attire was splendid, in comparison with
the rough garments of the little organist. His fine broadcloth cloak was
trimmed profusely with rare fur, and he wore a fur cap that must have cost
half as much as the church paid Summerman for playing the organ a
twelvemonth. He was a noticeable person, not merely on account of his
dress. His bearing was elegant, that of a well-bred man, not indifferent
to the eyes of others; that of a man somewhat cautious of the reflection
he should cast in a region of shadows and appearances. But, moreover, the
face of this Redman Rush was the face of misery. If ever a wreck came to
shore, here was the torn and battered fragment of a gallant craft.

"Were you in the church this morning?" asked the organist, struggling
with himself, speaking with effort; for, to his gaze, the aspect of the
stranger was forbidding and awful; and yet it was beyond his power to walk
by the side of any man cautious, cold, and dumb. This person was at least
a gentleman, and perhaps understood music.

"Yes," was the brief answer.

"How did the singing go?"

"Tolerably."

"That's a comfort," said the organist, looking more pleased than the
occasion seemed to warrant. But he was not a vain man; he merely supposed
that the gentleman's reply promised criticism worth hearing.

"Didn't you hear it yourself?"

"Oh, yes, after a fashion. I play the organ. It isn't the best situation
for hearing. I thought it decent. Particularly the _