“Yes, dear,” came the response. “Meet me at the church in half an hour,” said the good old man hurriedly to Ellen, who only too well understood the situation. Mrs. Todd’s orders were not to be ignored, and dear old Jeremy never attempted apologies.
So he returned to his dishes, and Ellen went back to her room to gloat over her check and to plan how it was to be spent. The time thus employed passed so quickly that Jeremy was already at the organ when she reached the church. He nodded to her, but continued to draw forth harmonious chords absorbedly. She picked up her violin, which she discovered lying on the bench, and held it lovingly till the last note from the organ died away.
Jeremy turned toward her with a smile. She held out the violin to him. “Please,” she said, and sat with chin in hands while he tuned up and then played a quaint old air. “One more,” said Ellen, “and then we’ll talk.”
Nothing loath Jeremy continued to play, ending with a note so fine and high that it seemed as if it must issue from a thread of gossamer.
Ellen drew a long sigh. “I wish I could play like that,” she said, “but now I never shall. I suppose I’m consumed with selfishness, but I do hate to give up the darling violin. One part of me is thankful and willing to do anything for Cousin Rindy, and the other part rebels like fury.”
“Perfectly human and natural,” declared Mr. Todd. “Your first impulse was strong enough not to make you hesitate a minute to make the sacrifice, so I don’t see that you need flagellate your soul so severely. You will always have music, always have the great gift of appreciation, and that means everything. No matter what discords there are without, one can always find harmony within.”
Ellen nodded. She knew where the outside discords lay, so far as he was concerned, and she knew of the sacrifices he made to keep peace. Others might laugh at that oft-reiterated, “Yes, dear,” but it prevented war, sweet bells jangled, and all that. “Now tell me what Don Pedro said,” she began, settling herself comfortably.
“He says just what one who knew him might expect. He wants me to come to see him, to bring the violin, and makes the excuse of sending me a ticket because I am employed as messenger, a pack-horse, you’d suppose, from his elaborate apologies for burdening me with so weighty an object as a violin, one so valuable that I am liable to be set upon by thieves and am running terrible risks.”
“Isn’t that just like Don Pedro? He never does a nice thing for you but he makes you think you are doing him a tremendous favor. Shall you go?”
“That’s as you say. Will you trust me with the violin?”