“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 Gloria in Excelsis.  I was most anxious about that.  How did it sound to you, sir?”

“Well.”

“But, after all, they didn’t understand it.”

“Understand what?”

“The meaning.  It opens with the song of the angels, you know.  ’Glory be to God on high; on earth, peace, good will toward men.’  They couldn’t tell, coherently, what the Peace and Good Will meant.  That’s the worst of it.  How can they sing what they don’t understand?”

“Surely.  Why don’t you teach them?”

“Why don’t I teach them!” exclaimed the organist.  “I’m not a brain-maker; that’s the reason, I suppose.”

“Then, you’ve tried it?”

For a minute Summerman seemed vexed by this question; but for no longer than a minute.