"Oh, yes, after a fashion. I play the organ. It isn't the best situation for hearing. I thought it decent. Particularly the _Gloria in Excelsis_. I was most anxious about that. How did it sound to you, sir?"

"Well."

"But, after all, they didn't understand it."

"Understand what?"

"The meaning. It opens with the song of the angels, you know. 'Glory be to G.o.d on high; on earth, peace, good will toward men.' They couldn't tell, coherently, what the Peace and Good Will meant. That's the worst of it.

How can they sing what they don't understand?"

"Surely. Why don't you teach them?"

"Why don't I teach them!" exclaimed the organist. "I'm not a brain-maker; that's the reason, I suppose."

"Then, you've tried it?"

For a minute Summerman seemed vexed by this question; but for no longer than a minute.

"What's the use? what's the use?" he said to himself, and his answer to the question was a laugh.

The laugh, though neither loud nor boisterous, but merely a mild evidence of good-nature that was not to be clouded by vexations, had a disagreeable sound to Redman Rush. He looked contemptuous, and felt more than he looked, so that it was really surprising to see him linger for such conversation as this of the organist, and to hear him ask,

"How do you teach your choir? Whose fault is it that they cannot learn?"

"Their own fault," answered Summerman. "They've got to learn more than the notes. So they complain. You can't make a singer out of a note-book. I've tried that enough. Now I try to show them that peace means a riddance of selfishness, and that selfishness is the devil's device for holding the world together. Not G.o.d's; for his idea is love, and was in the beginning.

Wasn't the world given to understand, that the life which was born was the love, truth, and beauty of the world, and that by Him all truth and beauty must live? They can't see it. I can't make a man or woman understand that an idea must be the centre around which the life will revolve. They come to practise, not to hear preaching, they say."

It seemed as if at this, and because of this announcement, Redman Rush drew himself apart and up, loftily, and with a gloomy defiance looked around him. When Summerman's eyes turned toward him, he seemed gazing into distance, and gave no indication that he had heard a word of what had been said. The organist was disappointed. He had hoped again for criticism; but he went on, perhaps with some suspicion of the correctness of his convictions--at least he had not said all he wished to say.

"We must have a centre--an idea," said he. "And if that be self, then the devil's to pay. Christ is the only absolute idea--the only possible giver of peace, therefore. I mean by Him, His doctrine. He stands for that, _being_ Truth, as he said, you know. They came out better on the 'good will to men,' if you noticed. It was easier for them to believe in the eternal good will of G.o.d, this morning. But they failed in the next line, 'We bless Thee, we give thanks to Thee, for Thy great glory!' If they knew more they would sing better. You know what was said, sir, 'Milton himself could not teach a boy more than he could learn.' That's the amount of it."

Now and then, during these last words, spoken so evidently by a man who liked to talk because he looked for sympathy, and hoped for it, the face of the stranger had changed in its expression; there seemed to be less fierceness, more sadness in his gloom. But the change was so slight as to be hardly perceptible, even to the eyes of Summerman. When he paused in speaking he had still no answer.

They walked on a few paces in silence, when suddenly the organist stepped up to the door of a house that opened on the sidewalk, and unlocked it.

"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 acc.u.mulate 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.

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.

Presently Mr. Rush came back.

"You may take my likeness," said he. "You are a good fellow. And it will help pa.s.s 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.