Presently Mr. Rush came back.

“You may take my likeness,” said he.  “You are a good fellow.  And it will help pass time.”

So the artist stepped quickly about, and looked pleased, but not too much so.  The work was soon done.  While Summerman was putting it through the process of perfection, the gentleman stood and watched him.

“How did you want your choir to sing ‘good will to men?’” he asked.

Summerman did not look up to answer—­did not express any surprise, but the whole man was in the reply given: 

“From the heart, sir.  Full, confident, assuring.  They owe that to God and man, or they’ve no business in a choir.”

“Do you suppose they could do it?” asked Mr. Rush, not immediately, but, as it seemed, when he had controlled the unpleasant influence the speaker’s enthusiastic mode of address had upon him.  It seemed as if he were not merely speaking, and engaging the organist in speech for pastime—­but rather because he could not help it.  His questions, when he asked them, had a more surprising sound to himself than to the person who answered.  And they vexed him—­but not Summerman.  When Mr. Rush asked him if he supposed it possible for them to sing in the way signified, he replied quite confidently: 

“Yes, if they only knew what they were about.”

“But you explained that to them?”

“Well, then, yes, if they believed it; for after all, belief is of the heart.”

“You don’t think they believe it?”

“It’s a hard thing to say.  But if they did, they would do better.  They are not a happy set altogether.  They whine—­they talk one thing, and live another.  One of them lost a little money the other day—­pretty nearly all he had, I suppose—­but what of that?”

“What of that!” exclaimed Mr. Rush, and he looked at the organist amazed.

“Yes, what of it?  The man has his health and his faculties.  What’s money?”

“What’s money!”

“Yes, sir, when you come to the point—­what is it?  Eyes, hands, feet—­blood, brain, heart, soul?  You would think so to hear him talk.  It’s dust!  I’ve seen that proved, sir, and I know ’tis true!”

“You don’t allow for circumstances,” said the stranger, sharply.

“Circumstances!” repeated Summerman, incredulous.

“Yes, the difference between your affairs and those of your neighbors.  You seem to judge others by yourself?”

“My affairs!  I haven’t any to speak of,” said the organist, with a grave sort of wonder.

“I suppose,” replied the stranger, almost angrily, “you are a human creature; things happen to you, and they do not.  If you have any feeling at all you are affected by what happens.”  He ceased speaking with the manner of a man who is annoyed that he should have been so far beguiled into speech.