"I found it in the choir," said he. "One of the children left it, may be.
Any way this is the best place for it. Dear little girl! I should hate to
think that she was really down there."

"Where, then?" asked the stranger.

"Up above, as sure as there's a heaven." As Summerman spoke, he stepped
from the frozen ground to the gravel walk, and turning his back on the
stranger he brushed a tear from his cheek.

The gentleman, whose name was Redman Rush, followed him. He was a
well-dressed person; indeed, his attire was splendid, in comparison with
the rough garments of the little organist. His fine broadcloth cloak was
trimmed profusely with rare fur, and he wore a fur cap that must have cost
half as much as the church paid Summerman for playing the organ a
twelvemonth. He was a noticeable person, not merely on account of his
dress. His bearing was elegant, that of a well-bred man, not indifferent
to the eyes of others; that of a man somewhat cautious of the reflection
he should cast in a region of shadows and appearances. But, moreover, the
face of this Redman Rush was the face of misery. If ever a wreck came to
shore, here was the torn and battered fragment of a gallant craft.

"Were you in the church this morning?" asked the organist, struggling
with himself, speaking with effort; for, to his gaze, the aspect of the
stranger was forbidding and awful; and yet it was beyond his power to walk
by the side of any man cautious, cold, and dumb. This person was at least
a gentleman, and perhaps understood music.

"Yes," was the brief answer.