“One night when we were living in a little town on a river near Atlanta they had a great quarrel.  It was while they were abusing and taunting each other that I learned—­oh, Father Abram, I learned that I didn’t even have the right to be—­don’t you understand?  I had no right even to a name; I was nobody.

“I ran away that night.  I walked to Atlanta and found work.  I gave myself the name of Rose Chester, and have earned my own living ever since.  Now you know why I cannot marry Ralph—­and, oh, I can never tell him why.”

Better than any sympathy, more helpful than pity, was Father Abram’s depreciation of her woes.

“Why, dear, dear! is that all?” he said.  “Fie, fie!  I thought something was in the way.  If this perfect young man is a man at all he will not care a pinch of bran for your family tree.  Dear Miss Rose, take my word for it, it is yourself he cares for.  Tell him frankly, just as you have told me, and I’ll warrant that he will laugh at your story, and think all the more of you for it.”

“I shall never tell him,” said Miss Chester, sadly.  “And I shall never marry him nor any one else.  I have not the right.”

But they saw a long shadow come bobbing up the sunlit road.  And then came a shorter one bobbing by its side; and presently two strange figures approached the church.  The long shadow was made by Miss Phoebe Summers, the organist, come to practise.  Tommy Teague, aged twelve, was responsible for the shorter shadow.  It was Tommy’s day to pump the organ for Miss Phoebe, and his bare toes proudly spurned the dust of the road.

Miss Phoebe, in her lilac-spray chintz dress, with her accurate little curls hanging over each ear, courtesied low to Father Abram, and shook her curls ceremoniously at Miss Chester.  Then she and her assistant climbed the steep stairway to the organ loft.

In the gathering shadows below, Father Abram and Miss Chester lingered.  They were silent; and it is likely that they were busy with their memories.  Miss Chester sat, leaning her head on her hand, with her eyes fixed far away.  Father Abram stood in the next pew, looking thoughtfully out of the door at the road and the ruined cottage.

Suddenly the scene was transformed for him back almost a score of years into the past.  For, as Tommy pumped away, Miss Phoebe struck a low bass note on the organ and held it to test the volume of air that it contained.  The church ceased to exist, so far as Father Abram was concerned.  The deep, booming vibration that shook the little frame building was no note from an organ, but the humming of the mill machinery.  He felt sure that the old overshot-wheel was turning; that he was back again, a dusty, merry miller in the old mountain mill.  And now evening was come, and soon would come Aglaia with flying colours, toddling across the road to take him home to supper.  Father Abram’s eyes were fixed upon the broken door of the cottage.