Miss Katharine did not very often play. Music with her meant something almost as sacred as a sacrament; she could not bring her melodies into the common everyday life; but when her soul burned within her, when she sought to express a dumb pain or longing, she went to the old organ for comfort.
On this evening, as the twilight fell, she sat down at the organ and began to play some soft, pitiful strains. The notes seemed to cry, as if they were in pain. One by one the children stole into the hall and came up close to her. Phil came closest; he leaned against her side and listened, his sweet brown eyes reflecting her pain.
“Don’t!” he said suddenly. “Comfort us; things aren’t like that.”
Miss Katharine turned round and looked at the little pale-faced boy, from him to Rachel—whose eyes were gleaming—to Kitty, who was half-crying.
“Things aren’t like that,” repeated Phil. “Play something true.”
“Things are like this,” answered Miss Katharine; “things are very, very wrong.”
“They aren’t,” retorted Phil. “Any one to hear you would think God wasn’t good.”
Miss Katharine paused; her fingers trembled; they scarcely touched the keys.
“Play joyfully,” continued Phil; “play as if you believed in him.”
“Oh, Phil, I do!” said the poor lady. “Yes, yes, I will play as if I believed.”