"This is the corner, mamma," said Frances, as the car came to a standstill at one of the busiest streets; "and, oh, if there aren't Mrs. Tate and Lucy! I haven't seen them for an age. Hurry, mamma, you know you are as anxious to see them as I am."
Peace and Allee found themselves bundled hurriedly down the steps, jerked through the surging crowd of people, teams and automobiles in street, and landed on the opposite corner breathless, but game.
"Stay right here," they heard Mrs. Sherrar say; and the next instant the older members of the party were wholly absorbed with those unexpectedly-met friends. The children listened impatiently for a few moments, but finding the conversation very uninteresting, looked about them for other more congenial amusement.
Just then a wheezy old hand-organ behind them began a familiar melody, and Peace beheld the player, a bent, white-haired, blind man, sitting in the shadow of a lamp-post on the edge of the curbing, slowly, patiently turning the crank of the little machine. She was at his side in an instant, staring into the sightless face with her great, brown, pitying eyes. His clothes were very shabby, his cheeks were pinched and pale; his cup, she noticed, stood empty on the top of the organ; his hands were terribly thin, and trembled as he played, so that he had to stop frequently between songs and rest.
"Are you sick, Mr. Blind-man?" she asked before she was aware she had spoken her thoughts aloud.
The white, unseeing eyes of the organist turned in the direction of the voice, and he answered with a show of cheerfulness, "Not now, little lady."
"Then you have been?"
"Yes, this is my first day out for two weeks."
"Oh, you poor man! It must tire you dreadfully to have to grind that box all day. Won't you let me try it awhile? I know I can do it all right. You can count your money while I play."
"There ain't been any to count so far this morning," he murmured, unconsciously dropping his hand from the organ as the quaint, old-fashioned song was finished; and before he had a chance to remonstrate, Peace had seized the crank with both hands, and was grinding away with all her might. But, though the crank seemed to turn easily enough, the music came in jerks, and the blind player took possession of his organ the minute she had completed the last bar, saying gently, "I am afraid you don't know how to make the music, little one. But I thank you a thousand times for your great good-will. I shall soon be strong enough to play as well as I always have. The first day is a little hard. Tomorrow it will be better. We'll change the roll now, and give them another tune." He fumbled about the organ for a moment or two, and then the strains of Annie Laurie filled the air.