“This is my shop,” said he; “won’t you come in, and warm yourself? it is so cold in spite of the sun.”

Redman Rush hesitated, with his foot upon the doorstep.  He looked up and down the street.  It was beautiful and bright without, but, oh, how bare and cold! homely enough within, but the glare of a hot coal fire suggested comfort, as the skylight did cheerfulness.  Did he really wish for warmth and comfort, for cheerfulness and company?  That was the point.

“Come in, I will show you something,” said Summerman.

“He invites me as if I were another boy like himself,” thought the man.  Perhaps for the sake of that unimaginable boyhood he crossed the threshold, and allowed Summerman to close the door behind him.

This room was the organist’s home.  His household goods were all around him when he stepped into the shop.  It was a little place, but so well arranged, that there seemed room, and to spare.  Summerman was hospitable as a prince—­the shade of Voltaire reminds me of the great Frederick’s hospitality! yet, let the word stand.

This shop gave outward and visible signs of the versatility of its owner’s mind.  The front part was devoted to the clock and watch making business; before the large window stood a table, where the requisite tools were kept for conduct of that business.  A few clocks, and frames of clocks, gathered probably from auction rooms, were ranged upon a shelf, and dust was never allowed to accumulate around or upon them.  Never was housemaid more exact and scrupulous than the proprietor of this Gallery.

In the back part of the shop, which was lighted by the skylight, stood the instrument for daguerreo-typing, possession of which would have made the organist a proud man, if anything could have done so.

When he had invited Mr. Rush to sit down, and the invitation was accepted, it was by a device of Summerman’s that the gentleman found himself directly facing the machine, and now, if he took an interest in any earthly thing, or was capable of curiosity, some good would come of it, thought the organist.

He had promised to show his visitor somewhat, and accordingly approached him with a miniature case in his hand.

Mr. Rush had removed his fur cap, and Summerman approaching him, was so struck by his appearance, the dignity, and pride, and trouble his countenance expressed, that he nearly exclaimed in his surprise, and quite forgot the intention he had, till Mr. Rush reminded him by extending his hand for the picture.

“This is little Mary,” exclaimed he, presenting the miniature.  “I took it last summer.  She died in October.  Maybe you will understand now why I said that we should have had a singer, if she had lived.”

But Summerman was in doubt about this, as, from the point to which he immediately retired, he cast a glance at the face of the stranger, who took the picture, and surveyed it, with such a look.