The Choir Invisible

"I'll not do it," said John. "She's too noble."

"Just for fun!"

"There's no fun in comparing a woman to a cat."

"There is if she doesn't know it. Come, begin!" And the parson laid one long

forefinger on one long little finger and waited for the first specification.

"Fineness," said John, thinking of a certain woman.

"Fondness for a nap," said the parson, thinking of a certain cat.

"Grace," said John.

"Inability to express thanks," said the parson.

"A beautiful form," said John."A desire to be stroked," said the parson.

"Sympathy," said John.

"Oh, no!" said the parson; "no cat has any sympathy. A dog has: a man is

more of a dog."

"Noble-mindedness," said John.

"That will not do either," said the parson. "Cats are not noble-minded; it's

preposterous!"

"Perfect case of manner," said John.

"Perfect indifference of manner," said the parson."

"No vanity," said John.

"No sense of humour," said the parson.

"Plenty of wit," said John.

"You keep on thinking too much about some woman," remonstrated the parson,

slightly exasperated.

"Fastidiousness," said John.

"Soft hands and beautiful nails," said the parson, nodding encouragingly.

"A gentle footstep," said John with a softened look coming into his eyes. "A

quiet presence."

"Beautiful taste in music," said John.

"Oh! dreadful!" said the parson. "What on earth are you thinking about?"

"The love of rugs and cushions," said John, groping desperately.

"The love of a lap," said the parson fluently.

"The love of playing with its victim," said John, thinking of another woman.

"Capital!" cried the parson. "That's the truest thing we've said. We'll not

spoil it by another word;" but he searched John's face covertly to see

whether this talk had beguiled him.

All this satire meant nothing sour, or bitter, or ignoble with the parson.

It was merely the low, far-off play of the northern lights of his mind,

irradiating the long polar night of his bachelorhood. But even on the polar

night the sun rises--a little way; and the time came when he married--as one

might expect to find the flame of a volcano hidden away in a mountain of

Iceland spar.

Toward the end of his illness, John lay one night inside his door, looking

soberly, sorrowfully out into the moonlight. A chair sat outside, and the

parson walked quietly up the green hill and took it. Then he laid his hat on

the grass; and passed his delicate hands slowly backward over his long fine

straight hair, on which the moonbeams at once fell with a luster as upon

still water or the finest satin.