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 God, 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