“I have adopted them,” answered the organist.  “Yes, they are mine now.  Just as they were to have been.  Just as she and I used to talk it over.  Only she is not here.”

“So you support them,” repeated Mr. Rush.  And he seemed to ponder that point, as if it involved somewhat beyond his comprehension.

The organist replied, wondering.  And he looked at the questioner—­but the questioner looked not at him.

“Yes, certainly,” he said.

“I suppose they are moderate in their wants.  They don’t require suites of chambers with frescoed ceilings, and walls hung with white satin, rose color, lavender—­and the rest.  They don’t need a four-story palace, with carpets of velvet to cover the floors from attic to basement.  Do they?” All the scorn and bitterness expressed in these words the organist happily could never perceive.  But he discerned enough to make him shudder, and he believed that the speaker was mad.

“I don’t think I understand you,” he answered, perplexed and cautious.  He feared the effect of his words.  But anything that he might say would produce now one sole result.

“Very likely you don’t understand,” said Mr. Rush.

“But,” said the organist, “I wish I did.”

“Why, man?”

“You look so troubled, sir.”

“Troubled?”

“As if you—­hadn’t—­tried out the Good Will doctrine.  I mean—­yes, I do! that I shouldn’t suppose you believed in it,” said Summerman, bravely.

Mr. Rush laughed bitterly.  “I’ll tell you a story,” said he.

“No—­no—­I mean not yet—­don’t,” exclaimed Summerman, quickly.

“Why, it’s a short tale.  I’m not going to trouble you much longer.  A fine holiday you’re having!  But you’ll never have another like it, I believe.  I—­I want your advice before I go.  Besides, you have kept to your green, sunny love so long, I would like to give you a notion of what’s going on the other side of the fence.”

“Then we will walk,” said Summerman, “if it’s agreeable to you, sir, I mean, of course.  I always walk around the lake at this hour.”  The little man had put on his overcoat while he spoke, and now stood waiting the stranger’s pleasure, cap in hand.

“Dare you leave that face of mine among the other faces?” asked Mr. Rush, with all seriousness.

The organist looked nervously around as if he expected something to justify the trouble this question occasioned him.

“Yes—­yes—­I’ll take the risk,” he answered, but he spoke without a smile.  One thought alone prevented him from heartily wishing himself rid of this companion, who, in spite of him, had cast such a gloom over his Christmas day.  The man seemed to have more need of him than Summerman had of his dinner deferred.

They set out together to walk through the frosty air under the cloudless sky.  The sun was near to setting.  In half an hour a deep orange belt would unroll round the east, flaming signs would mark the heavens, and a great star hang in the midst of an amethyst hemicycle.