IT was no new thing for David to feel the opposition of his choir; indeed, is not the attitude of minister and choir in many churches usually that of armed neutrality? How many ministers would drop dead if all the bitterness that is put into some anthems could kill! To the minister the choir is often a body of unruly artistic temperaments bent on mere secular display of its musical talents; to the choir the minister is a crass utilitarian, ignorant in all that relates to good music, and stubbornly insisting that the musical program for each day shall be twisted to illustrate some point in his sermon. To some ministers it has seemed that eternal vigilance alone prevented the choir from singing the latest “Gem from Comic Opera”; some choirs have felt that unless they battled strenuously they would be tied down to “Old Hundred” and “Blest Be the Tie that Binds,” by a minister who did not know one note from another. How many ministers have, early in November, begun to dread the inevitable quarrel over the choice of Christmas music!

Lucille Hardcome was a large woman and much given to violent colors, but, to do her justice, she managed them with a chic that put them above any question of mere good taste. She clashed a green and purple together, and evolved something that was “style” and that had to be recognized as “style.” In a day when women were wearing gray and black striped silks, as they were then, Lucille would concoct with her dressmaker something in orange and black, throw in a bow or two of cerulean blue, and appear well dressed. She could wear a dozen jangling bracelets on her plump arm and leave the impression that she was not overornamented, but ultrafashionable. You would have said, to see her among the less violently garbed women of the church, that she was one who would win only by bold thrusts. On the contrary, she could be a wily diplomatist.

Just as old Sam Wiggett received from unexpected quarters questions regarding the pipe organ, so David began to hear questions regarding the organist. Some asked him eagerly if it were true an organist was to be brought from Chicago; some asked if it were true that Miss Hurley had refused to play the big new organ. Presently he heard the name of the young man who was to be brought from Chicago to supplant Miss Hurley; then that the young man was to have a position in Sam Wiggett's office if he couldn't get into Schultz' music store.

It was soon after the arrangements for the purchase of the pipe organ had been made (Sam Wiggett giving in at last) that Miss Jane herself came to David. She had been ill two days, confined to her bed, although she did not tell David so. Partly, no doubt, her little breakdown had come because of the overhard work she was doing with Mademoiselle, but mainly it had been the shock of the word that she was to be pushed aside. Her disappointment had been overwhelming, for little Miss Jane had coveted with all her heart the joy of playing the great, new organ. The news that another was to be organist came like the blow of a brutal fist between her eyes, and she went down. For two days she fought against what she felt must be her great selfishness and then, still weak but ready to do what she felt was her duty, she went to David. 'Thusia, herself weak, led her to David's study door and left her there. David let her enter and closed the door after her. He placed a chair for her. The light fell on her face, and as he saw the marks her struggle had left there he threw up his head and drew a deep breath. All the fight there was in him surged up, and he cast his eyes at the spatter-work motto above his desk before he dared speak. His gray eyes glowed cold fire.

“Not on your own account, but on mine,” he said, “you will go on just as you have been going, Miss Jane Hurley! You are making some progress under Mademoiselle Moran!”

“Why—yes—yes—” Miss Jane stammered, twisting her handkerchief, “but—”

“Then you are all the organist the church wants or needs or shall have, unless it wants and needs and has a new dominie! I dare say we can manage to praise the Lord with your fingers and soul quite as well as with Samuel Wiggett's money and Lucille Hardcome's ambition.”

“But I can't!” said Miss Jane. “I can't, when they all want a new organist; they'll hate me. You don't know, Mr. Dean, what it would be to sit there and feel their hate against my back. You'll think I'm foolish, but if I could face them it would be different; but to sit there and try to play when everyone in the church doesn't want me, and to feel every eye behind me hostile! I can't, Mr. Dean!”

David opened the study door.

“'Thusia!” he called, and his wife answered. “Who do you want as your organist!” he called. “Why, Miss Jane, of course!” 'Thusia replied. “There's one who will not look hatred at your back,” said David. “And I'm two. And I can take little Roger to church, and that will be three. And I dare say we can find others. 'Thusia should know. Who does Mrs. Merriwether want, Thusia!” he called.

“She wants Miss Jane,” said 'Thusia promptly. They joined 'Thusia where she lay on her couch. “Are you worried about what Lucille has been suggesting, Miss Hurley! Dear me! you mustn't let anything like that worry you! Why, someone always wants something else. If David and I worried about what everyone wants we would do nothing but worry!”

“But Mr. Wiggett is giving the organ, and Lucille really got it for the church—” Miss Hurley faltered.

“I know,” said 'Thusia, “but David wants you to be the organist. That is both sides and the middle of the matter for me. David always knows what is best!”

“So, you see,” said David smiling, “we've had our little tempest in a teapot for nothing. 'Thusia, have you a teapot with something other than tempests in it? A cup might refresh Miss Jane.”

Her talk with 'Thusia did more than anything David could have said, perhaps, to convince Miss Jane that she need not bury her fond desire, for 'Thusia could talk as one woman talks to another. As she talked Miss Jane saw things as they were, the great majority of the congregation wishing to retain Miss Jane, with but a few of the richer and display-loving wanting anything else. 'Thusia was able to convey this without saying it. She made it felt, as a woman can when she chooses. A name here, a name there, an incidental mention of Lucille's unfortunate attempt to put her coachman in livery, and Miss Jane saw the church as it was—a few moneyed “pushers” and the body of silent, sincere worshipers. More than all else 'Thusia herself seemed to embody the spirit of the congregation. It suddenly occurred to Miss Jane that, after all, the quiet people who were her friends were the real church. And this was true. She left quite at peace with the idea that she was to play the new organ when it was installed.

And then David began his fight for Miss Jane, which became a fight against Lucille Hardcome. Lucille fought her battle well, but the odds were against her. As against the few who wanted a hired organist at any price there were an equal few who still questioned the propriety of having a new organ at all. Against her were still others who would have been with her had she and her warmest supporters not so often tried to “run” everything connected with the church, but the overwhelming sentiment was that as Miss Jane was “taking lessons” from the best organist in Riverbank, and as Miss Jane had always been organist, and as hiring one would be an added expense, Miss Jane ought to stay, at least until it was quite evident that she would not do at all. Even Professor Schwerl told David, albeit secretly, that he was for Miss Jane, his theory being that it was better to hear a canary bird pipe prettily than to listen to any half-baked virtuoso Lucille was likely to secure.

Thus it came to the night before the day when Professor Hedden, coming from a great city, was to introduce the congregation to its new organ. That afternoon Mademoiselle had given Miss Jane a final lesson—final with the promise of more later—and had kissed her cheek. Father Moran had patted her shoulder, too, wishing her, in his quaint English, good success, offering her a glass of sherry, which of course she declined, making him laugh joyously as he always did at “these Peelgrims Fathers,” as he good-naturedly called those he considered puritanical. Miss Jane, coming straight from St. Bridget's, had entered the church and had tried the great, new, splendid organ. She was a little afraid of it; she trembled when she pulled out the first stops and heard the first notes answer her fingers on the keys. Then she grew bolder; she tried a simple hymn and forgot herself, and by the time twilight came she was not afraid at all. She left the church uplifted and happy of heart. She told Miss Mary, when she reached home, that she believed she would do quite well.

The evening trial left her in trembling fear again. It was well enough to assure herself that no one in America could play as Professor Hedden played; that he was our one great master; but she feared what would be thought of her playing after the congregation had had such music as Professor Hedden's as a first taste.

A dozen or more fortunate hearers made up the little audience at the impromptu trial. They were Sam Wiggett and Mary Derling (who had had a little dinner for Professor Hedden), the four members of the choir, Lucille Hardcome, Miss Hurley, David and 'Thusia, two friends Lucille had invited and Schwerl.

The new organ was a magnificent instrument. Behind the pulpit and the choir stall the great pipes arose in a convex semicircle as typical of aspiring praise as any Gothic cathedral, and when, Saturday evening, Professor Hedden seated himself on the player's bench and, after resting his hands for a moment on the keyboard, plunged into some tremendous “voluntary” of his own composition, the mountains and the ocean and all the wild winds of Heaven seemed to join in one great burst of gigantic harmony. It seemed then to David Dean that the organ pipes should have been painted in glorious gold and all the triumphant hues of a magnificent sunrise instead of the fiat terra cotta and moss green that had been chosen as harmonizing with the church interior.

Presently the wild tumult of sound softened to the sighing of a breeze through the pine trees, to the rippling of a brook, to the croon of a mother over a babe. David held his breath as the crooning died, softer and softer, until he saw the mother place the sleeping child in its crib, and when the last faint note died into silence there were tears in his eyes. This was music! It was such music as Riverbank had never heard before!

“This is another of my own,” said Professor Hedden and the organ began to laugh like nymphs at play in a green, sunny field—tricksy laughter that made the heart glad—and that changed into a happy hands-all-around romp, interrupted by the thin note of a shepherd's flute. Out from the trees bordering the field David could see the shepherd come, swaying the upper part of his body in time to his thin note, and behind him came dancing nymphs and dryads and fauns. He touched 'Thusia's hand, and she nodded and smiled without taking her eyes from the organ. Then the dash of cymbals and the blare of trumpets and the martial tread of the warriors shook the green field—thousands of armed men—and all the while, faint but insistent, the piping of the shepherd and the laughter of the dancing nymphs. And then came priests bearing an altar, chanting. The cymbals and the flute and the trumpets ceased and the dancers were still. David could see the altar carried to the center of the green field. There was a moment of pause and then arose, faint at first but growing stronger each instant, the hymn of praise, of praise triumphant and all-overpowering. Mightier and mightier it grew until the whole universe seemed to join in the glorification of deity. David half arose from his seat, his hands grasping the back of the pew in front of him. Praise! this was praise indeed; praise worthy of the God worshiped in this church; worthy of any God!

As the music ceased David's eye fell on Miss Hurley at the far end of his pew. The thin little woman in her cheap garments was wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. Her hands trembled with emotion. Suddenly she dropped her forehead to the back of the pew before her and with one silk-gloved hand on either side of her cheek, remained so.

Professor Hedden, half turning on his seat, said:

“While this next is hardly what I would call a complete composition, it may give you an idea of the capabilities of the organ.”

When he ceased playing he said:

“It is merely an exercise in technique, but I think it shows fairly well what can be done with a good organ.”

It may have been merely an exercise, but it had made the organ perform as no one in that church, aside from Professor Hedden himself, had ever heard an organ perform. The full majesty and beauty of the great instrument, unguessed by those who had gathered to hear this first test, stood revealed. David Dean's heart was full. It seemed to him as if the organ, capable of speaking in such a manner, must be a mighty force to aid him in his ministerial work; as if the organ were a living thing. Such music must grasp souls and raise them far toward Heaven.

Professor Hedden arose and approached the steps leading down from the organ. In the pew in front of David old Sam Wiggett, donor of the organ, sat in his greatcoat, his iron gray hair mussed as always. David could imagine the firm-set mouth, the heavy jowls, the bushy eyebrows, the scowl that seldom left the old man's face. Lucille Hardcome whispered to him and he nodded.

“Now let's hear Miss Hurley play something,” said Lucille in her sweetest voice.

“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Hurley, cowering into her corner. “Not now, please! Not after that!”

Lucille laughed. Old Sam Wiggett sat as before, his head half hidden by his coat collar, but David knew the grim look that was on the old man's face. Wiggett's word would settle the organist matter when that grim old man chose to speak. David turned toward Miss Hurley, and she shook her head. He did his best to smother her refusal by advancing to the professor with congratulatory hand extended. In a moment the dozen fortunate listeners were crowded around Professor Hedden, and Miss Hurley, in her pew end, was forgotten.

As 'Thusia, David and Miss Jane were leaving the church Lucille, jingling with jewelry, swooped down upon them.

“Oh, Miss Hurley!” she called. “Just one minute, please!”

Miss Jane stopped and turned.

“Professor Hedden thinks,” Lucille cooed, “or, really, I'm not sure which of us thought of it, but we quite agree, that you must play at least once to-morrow morning! To christen your organ with you taking no part would be quite too shameful. So”—she hesitated and her smile was wicked—“so we want you to play the congregation out after the professor is through. You know they will never leave while he is playing.”

The taunt was cruel and plain enough—that the congregation would leave if Miss Jane played—and Miss Jane reddened. Professor Hedden, with Sam Wiggett, came up to them.

“Of course you must play!” he said through his beard, in his gruff, kindly voice.

“But, I—I—” stammered Miss Jane.

“Good-night! Good-night, all!” said Lucille. “It's all arranged, Miss Hurley,” and she bore the professor away.

“I shall not dare!” Miss Jane said to David. “After such music as the professor will give! Even the biggest thing I know—”

“But you'll not play the biggest thing you know,” said David.

The church was crowded the next morning. Even before the Sunday school was dismissed the seats began to fill. Sam Wiggett was on hand early, grim but proud of his great gift; his daughter came later with Lucille and Professor Hedden. When David came to take his seat behind his pulpit the church was filled as it had never been filled before, and many were standing. The two ladies of the choir had new hats. Professor Hedden took his place on the organist's bench and little Miss Jane cowered behind the rail curtain of terra-cotta wool. From the body of the church nothing could be seen but the top of the quaint little rooster wing on her hat. The praise service began.

I cannot remember now what Professor Hedden played, but it was wonderful music, as we all knew it would be. There were moments when the whole church edifice seemed to tremble, and others when we held our breath lest we fail to hear the delicate whispering of the organ. From my seat in the diagonal pews at the side of the church I could see old Sam Wiggett's face, grim and set, and Lucille Hardcome's triumphant glances and David's thin, clean-cut features, his whole spirit uplifted by the music, and I could see Miss Jane's rooster wing sinking lower and lower behind the terra-cotta curtain.

David's sermon was short, almost a rhapsody in praise of the music of praise, and then an anthem, and Professor Hedden's final offering. As the magnificent music rolled through the church, poor little Miss Jane's rooster wing disappeared entirely behind the curtain. The music ended in a mighty crash, into which Professor Hedden seemed to throw all the power of the organ. David arose. He stood a moment looking out upon the congregation.

“Following the benediction,” his dear voice announced, “our organist, Miss Hurley, will play while the congregation is being dismissed.”

Lucille looked from side to side, smiling and raising her eyebrows. David, however, did not give the benediction at once. He stood, looking out over the congregation, and behind him and the terra-cotta curtain two hats turned toward the place where we had seen Miss Jane's rooster wing sink out of sight. Professor Hedden bent down and raised Miss Jane and led her to the player's bench. She was very white. No one in the congregation moved. Then David spoke again.

His words were simple enough. He began by speaking of the man who had given the organ, and called him rugged but big-souled, and Sam Wiggett frowned. David continued, saying the organ would always be a memorial of that man's generosity and more than that. As David raised his head there came from the organ, as if from far off—faint, most faint, like a child's voice singing—the strains of the old, old hymn:

David continued as the music sang faintly. He said there was one, in whose name the donor had presented the organ, whose vacant place all would regret, since she, too, would have been eager to join in the music of praise, but he believed, he knew, that she was joining in the voice of the noble instrument from her new home on high. Then he said the benediction and the organ's voice grew strong, repeating the same noble hymn.

The congregation arose. One by one the voices took up the hymn until every voice joined in singing old Sam Wiggett's favorite hymn; the hymn he loved because his wife had loved it:

I cannot describe the change that came over the old man's face; it was as if he had been sitting with his hat on and suddenly uncovered. It was as if he had been grimly appraising a piece of property and suddenly realized that he was in God's house and felt the organ lifting his soul toward Heaven. He glanced to the left as if seeking the wife who had for so many years stood at his side to sing that same hymn. He raised his face to David and then suddenly dropped back into his seat. Miss Jane reached forward and manipulated I know not what stops and the organ opened its great lungs, crying triumphantly:

Lucille waited for Professor Hedden and there were plenty who waited with her, but old Sam Wiggett stood, gruffly slighting the words of thanks that were proffered him, until Miss Jane came down from the organ. He went to her and took her hand.

“Thank you, Jane!” he said. “That's what we want—music, not fireworks!”

He walked with David and 'Thusia and Miss Jane to the church door. Mademoiselle was there and she pounced upon Miss Jane.

“Ah, you see!” she cried. “I am disguised! I buy me a new hat so no one will know me, and I come to hear your grand organ. He was magnificent, your professor! But you, Meester Wiggett,” she asked in her quaint accent, “what you think now of our leetle St. Cecilia! She can play vairy nice!”

Miss Jane blushed with pleasure.

“Uh!” said Sam Wiggett, which—freely translated—meant that as long as he lived no one but Miss Jane should play the Wiggett pipe organ if he could prevent it. Lucille looked at David with a new respect.