Grandpa got out his cloth-covered hymnal, and she played again those
hymns which mingle so inexplicably with the feelings inside you. Not
even her difficulties with the organ--such as forgetting
occasionally to treadle, or having the keys pop up soundlessly from
under her fingers--could mar that feeling. Especially when grandpa
added his bass to the music, a deep bass so impressive as to make it
improper to question its harmony, even in your own mind.

Grandma had come in and seated herself in her little willow rocker;
she was rocking in time to the music, her eyes closed, and saying
nothing--just listening to the two of them. And, playing those
hymns, with grandpa singing and grandma listening, the new religious
feeling grew and grew and grew in Missy till it seemed to flow out
of her and fill the room. It flowed on out and filled the yard, the
town, the world; and upward, upward, upward--she was one with the
sky and moon and stars. . .

At last, in a little lull, grandpa said:

"Now, Missy, my song--you know."

Missy knew very well what grandpa's favourite was; it was one of the
first pieces she had learned by heart. So she played for him "Silver
Threads among the Gold."

"Thanks, baby," said grandpa when she had finished. There was a
suspicious brightness in his eyes. And a suspicious brightness in
grandma's, too. So, though she wasn't unhappy at all, she felt her
own eyes grow moist. Grandpa and grandma weren't really unhappy,
either. Why, when people are not really unhappy at all, do their