“And what was that beautiful, exquisite tune you played us before service?”
Martin brightened.
“Ah, I am glad you liked it,” he said, cordially. “Is it not beautiful? It was Wagner,—the beginning of the overture to ‘Lohengrin.’”
Mr. Challoner’s face grew suddenly grave. Wagner was identified with “Tannhäuser” to him.
“Certainly it was most, beautiful,” he said; “but do you think it is quite—quite suitable to play something from an opera in church, before the Holy Communion, too? One wants everything, is it not so, to be of the highest?”
Mr. Milton’s “Kyrie” occurred to Martin, but he dismissed it.
“I don’t see why one shouldn’t play an opera overture, father,” he said. “Does not the fact that it is beautiful make it suitable?”
“But the associations of it?” said his father.
“I don’t suppose anybody knew what it was except me,” said Martin. “I am sorry if you think I should not have played it. But really I had no time to think. I was nearly late, and on the organ there was only a book of dreadful extracts, chiefly by organists. But I will play something definitely sacred at the eleven o’clock service. That is if you would like me to play again.”
“Thank you, dear lad, thank you. Ah, what a lovely morning! Look at the hills. ‘I will lift up mine eyes to the hills.’ How wonderful the appreciation of natural beauty in the Psalms is,—‘Sweeter also than honey,’—so many of David’s similes are drawn from ordinary, every-day sensations, but lifted up, ennobled, dedicated. But how was it you were nearly late? I looked into your room before I started for church and found you had already gone!”