from the city to hold services. But the side door was certainly ajar
now, for the saddest music that John Jay had ever heard in all his life
came trembling out on the warm summer air.

Forgetting all about his errand, he scrambled through the fence and up
the gently rising knoll. His bare feet made no noise as he tiptoed up
the steps and stood peering through the open door. It was dim and cool
inside, with only the light that could sift through the violet and amber
of the stained glass windows; but in one, the big one at the end, was
the figure of a snowy dove, with outstretched wings. Through this
silvery pane a long slanting ray of light, dazzling in its white
radiance, streamed across the keys of the organ and the man who played
them,--the Reverend George.

It threw a strange light on the upturned face,--a face black as ebony,
worn with suffering, but showing in every feature the refining touch of
a noble spirit. His mournful eyes seemed looking into another world,
while his fingers wandered over the keys with the musical instinct of
his race.

John Jay slipped inside and crouched down behind a tall pew. The only
music that he had been accustomed to was the kind that Uncle Billy
scraped from his fiddle and plunked on his banjo. It was the gay,
rollicking kind, that put his feet to jigging and every muscle in his
body quivering in time. This made him want to cry; yet it was so sweet
and deep and tender as it went rolling softly down the aisles, that he
forgot all about the eggs and Miss Hallie. He forgot that he was John
Jay. All he thought of was that upturned face with the strange unearthly
light in its dark eyes, and the melody that swept over him.