“No, Reuben, and though you ain’t the one to say it, in your heart you’re mighty glad I’m a different woman from them days. I say it myself, as oughtn’t to.”
“You’re not the only one, Mean. ’Twas all the Lord’s doin’s.”
And Chee? Few know her by that name, or even the story of her birth and childhood.
In a far-off city, surrounded by luxury that wealth may buy, amid flattery that fame may bring, a certain celebrated musician still hears the echo of a little child’s plaintive prayer: “And if Thou do, I’ll do something for Thee sometime, only I can’t think of anything now. Thy kingdom come. Amen.”
It is Sabbath Day. As the twilight is falling over the streets of that far-off city, you may enter the wide doors of a great building.
Many people of different nationalities reverently tread its dim aisles. The turmoil of life is forgotten in the hush of this peacefulness.
While you wait, a strain of tender music breathes softly through the place. The sounds scarcely break the silence. Stillness itself is given a voice. The faces about you brighten. Bitter lines soften; bowed shoulders straighten.
For one glorified hour you listen. And when the last evangel note has trembled its message to every part of the vast room, even from the frescoed dome to the deepest places in the hearts of the listeners, you silently turn away.
People of different races, speaking different tongues,—each soul with its own burden, griefs, or sins,—have all been lifted nearer heaven by the same voice of lingering music.
Is it a wonder that no other instrument, however precious, can say to weary hearts, “He is sure to have heard; it will be all right pretty soon,” as Daddy Joe’s fiddle?