As he slid down from the hay and walked along beside
George, he noticed for the first time how slow and faltering the steps
beside his had grown. As they climbed up the hill to the church, it
seemed to him that the beloved face looked unusually thin and haggard in
the strong light of the sunset.
George did not play long this evening. He knew that the quiet little
listener on the steps bent as readily to the changing moods of his
melody as the clover does to the fitful breezes; so he changed abruptly
from the minor chords that his fingers instinctively reached for, to an
old hymn that smoothed away the pathetic pucker of the boy's forehead.
Then he pulled out the stops and began a loud burst of martial music, so
glad and triumphant, that, listening, one felt all great things possible
of achievement. John Jay stood up, swinging his cap on the end of a
stick which he carried, with all the curves and rythmic motions of a
drum major.
After George came out and locked the door, he stood for a moment looking
out fondly across the peaceful fields, still fair with the fading glow
of the summer sun.
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