some criticism to offer in respect to the choir's performance.

But he descended the church steps without having met even the sexton;
somewhat disappointed, it was not with indifference that he saw a stranger
standing in the churchyard among the graves; by the grave, it chanced, of
a child who died in October, five years old. When the organist perceived
this, a purpose which he would have formed later in the day, anticipated
itself, and led him to the little mound. He would leave the cedar wreath
on Mary's grave.

He was not ashamed of his gracious purpose when he had drawn near. His
gentle heart was glad to do this homage to the dead, in the presence of a
stranger who had never seen the living child. Stooping down, he smoothed
the frozen grass, and laid the wreath upon it; and when he saw the
stranger watching him, he said:

"She was the prettiest child in the village; if she had lived, we should
have had one singer in the choir. I would have taught her. She loved music
so much."

Here was an introduction sufficient for an ordinary man. At least the
organist thought so. But when he looked at the stranger he was sorry that
he had spoken, for no genial sympathy was in that face, and still less in
the voice that asked,

"Will you leave the wreath here? Where did it come from?"

The organist replied as though he did not perceive the indifference with
which the questions were asked: