"I'm afraid so," sighed the prelate. "We have had so many false alarms. You remember those German musicians, Miss Thompson?"
"I remember."
"They were innocent, it appears, quite innocent. Ah, well, I suppose we must be patient," the prelate continued in a tone of resignation, "and, for the moment, my dear, nothing could be more delightful than the song you were speaking of—in the dark, please."
Betty looked out into the park, where the swaying pines, tortured in the strength of the tempest, were hurling their branches to and fro like huge black hands. She listened to the shrieking of the gale as it rose and fell, then, without speaking, she went to the old organ, and, seating herself at its yellow keyboard, in the paneled recess, began to play softly a tender prelude of minor chords. As her courage grew she swelled into a braver ascending movement with danger notes sounding here and there, and, finally, improvising through a rapid procession of major chords, she swung into a triumphant crashing finale with the full strength of the organ, a storm within and a storm without that stirred old Bunchester to the depths of his tired soul and gave Betty Thompson new courage for the task that was before her.
Suddenly she stopped. There was a moment of tense silence, then her sweet voice lifted in an inspired melody, and, with all the tenderness of her nature, she sang "Annie Laurie."
"Wonderful! Admirable!" exclaimed the bishop when the last note of the haunting words had died away. "You have an exquisite voice, my dear. Really, I—I don't know when I have been more genuinely touched."
Betty herself was so deeply moved that she could scarcely trust herself to speak.
"Bob," she called softly, "will you get my handkerchief? It's there by you—in my desk—the top drawer."
She spoke as if she thought Bob was sitting near her desk, but he rose from the opposite corner of the room.
"Certainly," he said, crossing over. "Wait, I'll turn up the lights," and he did so, touching a button in the wall.