His mournful eyes seemed looking into another world,
while his fingers wandered over the keys with the musical instinct of
his race.
John Jay slipped inside and crouched down behind a tall pew. The only
music that he had been accustomed to was the kind that Uncle Billy
scraped from his fiddle and plunked on his banjo. It was the gay,
rollicking kind, that put his feet to jigging and every muscle in his
body quivering in time. This made him want to cry; yet it was so sweet
and deep and tender as it went rolling softly down the aisles, that he
forgot all about the eggs and Miss Hallie. He forgot that he was John
Jay. All he thought of was that upturned face with the strange unearthly
light in its dark eyes, and the melody that swept over him.
A spell of coughing seized the rapt musician. After it had passed, he
lay forward on the organ a while, with his head bowed on his arms. Then
he straightened himself up wearily, and began pushing the stops back
into their places.
The silence brought John Jay to his senses.
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