trees, with a background of mountains, and a studding of white
gravestones beyond its wide front steps. It was astonishingly
beautiful, and startlingly close for a church. He had not been so near
to a church except for a wedding in all his young life. Dandy place for
a wedding that would be, canopy over the broad walk from the street,
charming architecture, he liked the line of the arched belfry and the
slender spire above. The rough stone fitted well into the scenery. The
church seemed to be a thing of the ages placed there by Nature. His
mind trained to detect a sense of beauty in garments, rugs, pictures,
and women, appreciated the picture on which he was gazing. Where was
this anyway? Surely not the place with the absurd name that he
remembered now on the mountain Detour. Sabbath Valley! How ridiculous!
It must be the home of some wealthy estate, and yet there seemed a
rustic loveliness about it that scarcely established that theory.

The bells had ceased. He heard the roll of a deep throated organ
skillfully played.

And now, his attention was suddenly attracted to the open window of the
church where framed in English ivy a lovely girl sat at the organ. She
was dressed in white with hair of gold, and a golden window somewhere
back of her across the church, made a background of beaten gold against
which her delicate profile was set like some young saint. Her white
fingers moving among the keys, and gradually he came to realize that it
was she who had been playing the bells.

He stared and stared, filled with admiration, thrilled with this new
experience in his blase existence. Who would have expected to find a
beauty like that in a little out of the way place like this? His theory
of a great estate and a rich man's daughter with a fad for music