But the music itself and the words of the grand old hymns she was

playing gradually crept into her soul and helped her, so that when the

lame stranger made at last his slow progress up to the choir loft and

stood beside her she was able to be coolly polite and explain briefly

to him how the organ controlled the action of the bells.

He listened to her, standing in open admiration, his handsome careless

face with its unmistakable look of self indulgence was lighted up with

genuine admiration for the beautiful girl who could play so well, and

could talk equally well about her instrument, quite as if it were

nothing at all out of the ordinary run of things that she were doing.

Opal, sitting in the front pew, where she had dropped to wait till her

escort should be satisfied, watched him at first discontentedly,

turning her eyes to the girl, half wondering, half sneering, till all

at once she perceived that the girl was not hearing the hot words of

admiration poured upon her, was not impressed in the least by the man,

did not even seem to know who he was--or care. How strange. What a very

strange girl! And really a beautiful girl, too, she saw, now that her

natural jealousy was for the moment averted. How extremely amusing.

Laurie Shafton interested in a girl who didn't care a row of pins about

him. What a shouting joke! She must take it back to his friends at the

shore, who would kid him unmercifully about it. The thing had never

been known in his life before. Perhaps, too, she would amuse herself a

little, just as a pastime, by opening the eyes of this village maiden

to the opportunity she was missing? Why not? Just on the verge of his

departure perhaps.

And now, with tender touch, the music grew softer and dropped into the

sorrowful melody: "The mistakes of my life have been many,

The sins of my heart have been more,

But I come as He has bidden.

And enter the open door.

I know I am weak and sinful,

It comes to me more and more

But since the dear Saviour has bid me come in

I'll enter the open door."

It was one of the songs they used to sing together, Mark and she, on

Sunday afternoons just as the sun was dropping behind the western

mountain, and Marilyn played it till the bells seemed to echo out a

heart's repentance, and a great forgiveness to one far, far away.

At its first note the song was recognized by Mark Carter as he drove

along through the night and it thrilled him to his sad sick soul. It

was as if she had spoken to him, had swept his heart strings with her

white fingers, had given him her sweet wistful smile, and was calling

to him through the dark. As they came in sight of the church Billy

pulled his cap a little lower and tried to keep the choke out of his

throat. Somehow the long hours without sleep or food, the toil, the

anxiety, the reaction, had suddenly culminated in a great desire to

cry. Yes, cry just like a baby! Why, even when he was a baby he

didn't cry, and now here was this sickening gag in his throat, this

smarting in his eyelids, this sinking feeling. He cast an eye at Cart.

Why, Cart looked that way too. Cart was feeling it also. Then he wasn't

ashamed. He gulped and smudged his dirty hand across his smarting eyes,

and got a long streak of wet on the back of his hand which he hastily

dried on the side of his sweater, and so they sat, two still dark

figures travelling along quietly through the night, for Carter had shut

off the engine and let the natural incline of the road carry them down

almost in front of the church.




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