Her soft, glad answer came down from the gallery.
"Child, play the 'Miserere' I taught you."
She obeyed, making the organ wail like a tormented soul. Truly, no tales I ever heard of young Wesley and the infant Mozart ever surpassed the wonderful playing of our blind child.
"Now, the 'Dies Irae.'—It will come," he muttered, "to us all."
The child struck a few notes, heavy and dolorous, filling the church like a thunder-cloud, then suddenly left off, and opening the flute-stop, burst into altogether different music.
"That is Handel—'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'"
Exquisitely she played it, the clear treble notes seemed to utter like a human voice the very words:
"I know that my Redeemer liveth, and He shall stand
at the latter day upon the earth.
And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh
shall I see God."
With that she ceased.
"More, more!" we both cried.