Follow that with the wonderful benediction. By the way, did you ever
think of that benediction--of its fulness? "The _grace_ of our Lord
Jesus Christ, the _love_ of God, the _communion_ of the Holy Ghost,
be with you _all_. Amen." Following that earnest amen--nay, _did_ it
follow, or was it blended with the last syllable of that word, so
nearly that word seemed swallowed in it--came the roll of that
twenty-thousand-dollar organ. What did the organist select to follow
that sermon, that hymn, that benediction? Well, what was it? Is it
possible that that familiar strain was the old song, "Comin' Through
the Rye"? No, it changes; that is the ring of "Money Musk." Anon
there is a touch--just a dash, rather--of "Home, Sweet Home," and
then a bewilderment of sounds, wonderfully reminding one of "Dixie"
and of "Way down upon the Suwanee River," and then suddenly it loses
all connection with memory, and rolls, and swells, and thunders, and
goes off again into an exquisite tinkle of melody that makes an old
farmer--for there was here and there an old farmer even in that
modern church--murmur as he shook hands with a friend, "Kind of a
dancing jig that is, ain't it?"

To the sound of such music the congregation trip out. Half-way down
the aisle Mrs. Denton catches the fringe of Mrs. Ellison's shawl.

"Excuse me," she says, "but I was afraid you would escape me, and I
have so much to do this week. I want you to come in socially on
Tuesday evening; just a few friends; an informal gathering; tea at
eight, because the girls want a little dance after it. Now come
early."

Just in front of these two ladies a group have halted to make
inquiries.