ed.

"Let us enter by way of the church," said the monk; "I will show you our
little private door."

The great building was silent and empty. Our footsteps woke weird echoes
in the distant aisles. Salvador by some secret touch unfastened the door
of the screen, which rolled back on its hinges, and we passed into the
choir.

"Here we attend mass," said our guide; "a small community of monks,
though I am more often at the organ. In days gone by, when they numbered
nearly a thousand, it was a splendid and powerful institution--a
magnificent sight and sound. No need then to add to the funds by
teaching. All the glory has departed, but perhaps, in return, we are
more useful. Nothing, however, can take from our scenery, though its
repose is no longer unbroken. With a railroad at our very doors, who
can say that we are now out of the world? Ah!" as a man crossed the
choir towards the sacristy; "there is my organ-blower. Would you like me
to give you some music?"

"It would be enchanting. But your repast--would you not lose it?"

"I have twenty minutes to spare, and should then still be in time for
the end." He beckoned to the man, who approached. "Hugo, have you
dined?"

"Si, Padre Salvador."

"Then come and blow for me a little."

He bade us seat ourselves in the stalls, where the organ was best heard.
We listened to their receding footsteps ascending the winding staircase
leading to the organ loft. In a few minutes we had lost all sense of
outward things. The loveliest, softest, most entrancing music went
stealing through the great building. Salvador was evidently
extemporising. All his soul was passing into melody. Divine harmonies
succeeded each other in one continued flow. It was music full of
inspiration, such as few mortals could produce; fugitive thoughts more
beautiful by reason of their spontaneity than any matured composition
ever given to the world. Here indeed was a genius.

Never but once before had we heard such playing. Many years had gone by
since one evening on the Hardanger Fjord, we glided through the water
under the moonlight and listened to such strains as Beethoven himself
could not have equalled. Many a hand oft-clasped in those days lies cold
and dead; life has brought its disillusions; the world has changed; but
even as we write the glamour of that moonlit night surrounds us, those
matchless strains still ring in our ears, lifting us once more to
paradise.

This monk's music brought back