page off which I was reading and glanced towards him. Not once did I
find his eyes turned away from me.

There was a small loft in the west end of the church, in which stood
a little organ, whose voice, weakened by years of praising, and
possibly of neglect, had yet, among a good many tones that were
rough, wooden, and reedy, a few remaining that were as mellow as
ever praiseful heart could wish to praise withal. And these came in
amongst the rest like trusting thoughts amidst "eating cares;" like
the faces of children borne in the arms of a crowd of anxious
mothers; like hopes that are young prophecies amidst the downward
sweep of events. For, though I do not understand music, I have a
keen ear for the perfection of the single tone, or the completeness
of the harmony. But of this organ more by and by.

Now this little gallery was something larger than was just necessary
for the organ and its ministrants, and a few of the parishioners had
chosen to sit in its fore-front. Upon this occasion there was no one
there but the man to whom I have referred.

The space below this gallery was not included in the part of the
church used for the service. It was claimed by the gardener of the
place, that is the sexton, to hold his gardening tools. There were a
few ancient carvings in wood lying in it, very brown in the dusky
light that came through a small lancet window, opening, not to the
outside, but into the tower, itself dusky with an enduring twilight.
And there were some broken old headstones, and the kindly spade and
pickaxe--but I have really nothing to do with these now, for I am,
as it were, in the pulpit, whence one ought to look beyond such
things as these.