Lynn Severn was restless as she sat on the porch in the cool dark

evening and heard unheeding the small village sounds that stole to her

ears. The laughter of two children playing hide and seek behind the

bushes across the way; the call of their mother summoning them to bed.

The tinkle of a piano down the street; the whine of a Victrola in

another home; the cry of a baby in pain; the murmur of talk on the

porch next door; the slamming of a door; the creak of a gate; footsteps

going down the brick pavement; the swinging to and fro of a hammock

holding happy lovers under the rose pergola at Joneses. She could

identify them all, and found her heart was listening for another sound,

a smooth running car that purred, coming down the street. But it did

not come!

By and by she slipped out and into the church, opening one window to

let in the moonlight, and unlocking the organ by the sense of feeling.

Her fingers strayed along the keys in tender wandering melodies, but

she did not pull the stop that controlled the bells. She would have

liked to play those bells and call through them to Mark across the

mountains where he might be riding, call to tell him that she was

waiting, call to ask him why he was so strangely aloof, so silent, and

pale in his dignity; what had come between them, old friends of the

years? She felt she could say with the bells what her lips could never

speak.

But the bells would cry her trouble to the villagers also, and

she could not let them hear. So she played soft melodies of

trust and hope and patience, until her father came to find her, and

linking his arm in hers walked back with her through the moonlight, not

asking anything, only seeming to understand her mood. He was that way

always. He could understand without being told. Somehow she felt it and

was comforted. He was that way with everybody. It was what made him so

beloved in his parish, which comprised the whole Valley, that and his

great sincerity and courage. But always his sense of understanding

seemed keenest with this flower-faced girl of his. He seemed to have

gone ahead of her way always to see that all was right--or wrong--and

then walked with her to be sure she did not stumble or miss her way. He

never attempted to reason her out of herself, nor to minimize her

trials, but was just there, a strong hold when she needed it. She

looked up with a smile and slipped her hand in his. She understood his

perfect sympathy, as if his own past youth were touching hers and

making her know that whatever it was she had to face she would come

through. He was like a symbol of God's strength to her. Somehow the

weight was lifted from her heart. They lingered on the piazza together

in the moonlight a few minutes, speaking quietly of the morrow and its

duties, then they went into the wide pleasant living room, and sat

down, mother and daughter near together, while the father read a

portion: "He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High

shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

"I will say of the Lord, he is my refuge and my fortress:

my God; in him will I trust.

"Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the

fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.

"He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his

wings shalt thou trust."




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