At first, it appeared as if a glance would suffice him.  But he did not return it with a glance.  Was it the brightness and innocence of the young face that won upon him, or did it for the moment take its place as the type of all beauty and innocence, and hold him to contemplation, as for the last time.  Was it really into the face of that little child, dead and buried since October, that he looked? or was he really here, under the roof of this poor organist, shut up with the warmth of his coal stove this bright Christmas day, locked safe his secret thoughts, himself secure with them?

At last some word or sound escaped the organist.  He had gazed at Mr. Rush till he seemed possessed of nightmare.  So wild, so haggard, so awful, the man’s face appeared to him, that the cry, an involuntary one, expressed better than any inquiry could have done, how much disturbed he was.  The stranger heard, and seemed to understand, for at the sound he rose quickly, and laid the picture on the counter; not gently; at the same time he looked at Summerman and laughed; but without merriment.

“Come,” said Summerman quickly, “let me take your portrait.  I have quite a collection here, you see.”  And as he spoke he did not remove his eyes from the stranger—­he had come to the conclusion that he was mad, or in some direful strait that made him almost irresponsible, and his first purpose was one of helpful commiseration.

Instead of quitting the shop straightway, as Summerman expected he would do when he made this proposition (and if he did depart he meant to follow), the stranger walked toward the instrument, and on his way picked up the picture he had thrown down with so little ceremony.  He seemed to think he owed this courtesy: 

“Do you find much patronage here?” he asked.

“Oh, considerable,” replied Summerman.  “Just now more than common.  Your likeness is such a good present to make your friend!”

“Do you think so?”

“Certainly,” was the emphatic response.

“You ask to take my likeness—­what for?”

“I want it myself.”

“Oh—­for a sign.  Well, young man, you don’t know what it’s the sign of, after all,” and here Mr. Rush evidently set himself against the world.

“I hope it’s the sign of a friend,” answered Summerman, who was keeping up his spirits by an effort, for the mere presence of this man weighed on them with an almost intolerable weight.  Yet he was sparing no effort to retain that presence.

“Why do you hope that?” asked Mr. Rush with a disagreeable show of authority.

“Because we met at the church door on Christmas day.”  Simple answer—­yet it was spoken so gently, so truthfully, it seemed to make an impression.

“Christmas day.  So it is.  But it’s getting late.  How high is the sun yet?”

“Three hours, maybe.”

Hearing this, the gentleman turned away, and walked to the further extremity of the shop.  Summerman’s eyes followed him with anxiety.  But he went on polishing a plate, and seemed beyond all things intent on that.