It was hard work playing the three other tunes, they seemed so out of place in the room of death.
But Treffy did not seem to hear them. He was murmuring softly to himself the words of the prayer, "Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow; whiter than snow, whiter than snow."
And, as Christie was playing "Home, sweet Home," for the second time, old Treffy's weary feet passed within the gates. He was at home at last, in "Home, sweet Home."
And little Christie was left outside.
CHAPTER X.
"NO PLACE LIKE HOME."
The next morning, some of the lodgers in the great room below remembered having heard sounds in the stillness of the night, which had awakened them from their dreams and disturbed their slumbers. Some maintained it was only the wind howling in the chimney, but others felt sure it was music, and said that the old man in the attic must have been amusing himself with the organ at midnight.
"Not he," said the landlady, when she heard of it; "he'll never play it again, he's a dying man, by what the doctor says."
"Just you go and ask him if he wasn't turning his old organ in the middle of last night," said a man from the far corner of the room. "I'll bet you a shilling he was."