“One certainly hears enough of him,” the girl remarked.
“O Miss Lorraine, I hope you and your mother aren’t getting the impression that Reuben is anything of a prig,” he protested, “for he isn’t. He is—well, he is four-square, that boy is, Miss Lorraine, and I am happy to think that you will see him and judge for yourself in the Christmas holidays.”
“I shall be pleased, I’m sure,” she murmured conventionally. “But I can’t help being more interested in the father,—being so musical and wanting a pipe organ in his house and dying before it ever came to him. You knew him well, Mr. Langley?”
“Yes, I knew—and loved the man well,” he said sadly. “He was a charming fellow, the best of companions and friends.”
“And he played—well?”
“To me he seemed almost a genius,” he replied, and Alice heard herself repeating it triumphantly to John Converse.
“And yet—people have forgotten him already!” she exclaimed. “One would think—O Mr. Langley, has there ever been any idea of a memorial for him here in Farleigh?”
“O no, nothing of the kind,” he said in some surprise.
“But don’t you think there should be?” she cried.
“In his case, I think it is better as it is,” he said.