“Is Mr. Brooke in the chapel, Albeit?” asked Marie-Celeste.
“Yes,” sighed Albert; for he knew that his answer meant an end to their chat; for whenever during these visits of hers a party of tourists were so fortunate as to secure the services of the verier, Mr. Brooke, Marie-Celeste invariably followed in their train, listening to every word as it fell from the good old man's lips. She already knew many of the monument inscriptions by heart, but that made no difference; for her the old chapel possessed a never-ending fascination, and she rarely crossed the threshold of the choir—which was a beautiful chapel in itself—without an actual thrill of pleasure. So, as Albert had expected, this morning proved no exception, and he was unceremoniously left to communion with his own thoughts upon the doorstep; but it did not prove a long separation. In their tour of the chapel the travellers from across the water had but reached the wonderful cenotaph of the Princess Charlotte, when a sweet single chord from the great organ broke upon the air, as though the player simply wanted to make sure that the instrument would respond when the time came. But in that single chord lay a summons for Marie-Celeste and for Albert; at least, they chose so to regard it, and meeting at the foot of the organ-loft stairway, they climbed it hand-in-hand.
“So here you are!” said a very sweet-looking young lady, turning to greet the children from her seat on the organ-bench. “Seems to me I would have waited for more of an invitation than that, just that one chord.”
“You needn't mind 'bout inwiting us ever, Dorothy,” said Albert, climbing on to a cushioned bench at his sister's side, “'cause we'd tome anyhow, wouldn't we, Marie-Celeste?”
“Yes, Albert, I think we would; but you really don't mind having us, do you, Miss Allyn?”
“No, I really don't,” in imitation of Marie-Celeste's frequent use of the word. “In fact, I rather like to have two such every-day little specimens near me here in this chapel, where so many great people lie buried; and now I shall not say another word, because I want to have a good practice.”
“But you'll—” and then Marie-Celeste thought perhaps she had better not ask it.
“Stop in time for your favorites,” laughed Miss Allyn, finishing the sentence. “Yes, of course I will. Perhaps you'd like them now, you and Albert?”
“No, no, Dorothy,” said Albert firmly; “we want to think they are tomin', and not dat dey're over.” And as Marie-Celeste was evidently of the same mind, that settled the matter. Then for the first time the tone of the organ rang out full and strong; and the visitors in the chapel below looked up with rapt faces to the gallery, as though for them, as for Marie-Celeste, the sweet music seemed to lend the last perfecting touch to the holy enchantment of the place. For over an hour, with scarce an interruption, Miss Allyn played on and on, and Marie-Celeste never stirred from the choirmaster's chair, in which she sat absorbed and entranced. Albert, it must be confessed, had made more than one mysterious sortie down the gallery stairs, as though bent on an important errand which had just occurred to him; but in each case he brought up in rather aimless fashion in some remote corner of the chapel; so it was easy to comprehend that the only real purpose in view was to give his restless little four-year-old self the benefit of a change. He was absent on the third of these little excursions of his, and was surreptitiously amusing his audacious little self by seeing how it seemed to sit in the Oueen's own stall, when hark!—yes, that was going to be “The Roseate Hues,” and with a bound that came near bringing the royal draperies with him he was out of the stall in a trice and fairly scrambling up the organ stairs.
“Bedin aden; it isn't fair; bedin aden, Dorothy, please,” he urged with all the breath hurrying and excitement had left him; and Dorothy, at sight of his anxious, entreating face, resolved to “begin again,” first bringing the interrupted measure to a close with a brief concluding improvisation of her own. Albert understood, and brooked the momentary delay as best he could, but he confided to Marie-Celeste, in highly audible whisper, that he didn't see why Dorothy couldn't stop short off in the middle of a piece if she chose to: he could, anyway—he knew he could.