in bygone years. And perhaps one or other of them may have been fancying
that when the great, busy world had done with him--and used him up and
thrown him aside--here at least there would be peace preserved for
him--an ample sufficiency of rest under this greensward, with perhaps a
few flowers put there by some kindly hand. The dead did not seem to need
much pity on this tranquil day.

Then into this universal silence came suddenly a low, booming sound that
caused Lionel Moore's heart to stand still: it was the church
organ--that awakened a multitude of associations and recollections, that
seemed to summon up the vanished years and the dreams of his youth, when
it was he himself who used to sit at the instrument and call forth those
massive chords and solemn tones. Something of his boyhood came back to
him; he seemed again to be looking forward to an unknown future;
wondering and eager, he painted visions; and always in them, to share
his greatness and his fame, there was some radiant creature,
smiling-eyed, who would be at his side in sorrow and in joy, through the
pain of striving and in the rapture of triumph. And now--now that the
years had developed themselves--what had become of these wistful hopes
and forecasts? Boyish nonsense, he would have said (except just at such
a moment as this, when the sudden sound of the organ seemed to call back
so much). He had encountered the realities of life since then; he had
chosen his profession; he had studied hard; he had achieved a measure of
fame. And the beautiful and wonderful being who was to share his
triumphs with him? Well, he had never actually beheld her. A glimmer
here and there, in a face or a form, had taken his fancy captive more
than once; but he remained heart-whole; he was too much occupied, he
laughingly assured Maurice Mangan again and again, to have the chance of
falling in love.