The organist replied as though he did not perceive the indifference with which the questions were asked:
"I found it in the choir," said he. "One of the children left it, may be. Any way this is the best place for it. Dear little girl! I should hate to think that she was really down there."
"Where, then?" asked the stranger.
"Up above, as sure as there's a heaven." As Summerman spoke, he stepped from the frozen ground to the gravel walk, and turning his back on the stranger he brushed a tear from his cheek.
The gentleman, whose name was Redman Rush, followed him. He was a well-dressed person; indeed, his attire was splendid, in comparison with the rough garments of the little organist. His fine broadcloth cloak was trimmed profusely with rare fur, and he wore a fur cap that must have cost half as much as the church paid Summerman for playing the organ a twelvemonth. He was a noticeable person, not merely on account of his dress. His bearing was elegant, that of a well-bred man, not indifferent to the eyes of others; that of a man somewhat cautious of the reflection he should cast in a region of shadows and appearances. But, moreover, the face of this Redman Rush was the face of misery. If ever a wreck came to shore, here was the torn and battered fragment of a gallant craft.
"Were you in the church this morning?" asked the organist, struggling with himself, speaking with effort; for, to his gaze, the aspect of the stranger was forbidding and awful; and yet it was beyond his power to walk by the side of any man cautious, cold, and dumb. This person was at least a gentleman, and perhaps understood music.
"Yes," was the brief answer.
"How did the singing go?"
"Tolerably."