Had her father not provided so much material for its building, the cross she bore might not have been so heavy. Up to the time of our arrival, Linda had managed to sit a little while each day before the battered old organ that stood in an otherwise empty room. To any other family it would have been the parlor--to this family it was a thing without a name. But even as you have seen a timid, lonely woman appear at her window, whistling loudly and wearing a man’s hat--by means of which she convinces would-be burglars of the presence there of a large and very destructive man--so these parlor windows were well curtained, that the occasional humped-over, slow-driving passer-by might be convinced that this parlor held--(as much ingrain-horse-hair-worsted-crocheting, and high art plaster cats, with round black spots and heavy coats of varnish as any)--and I suppose that one trick was quite as convincing as the other--any way, there sat Linda in that dreary room, before the organ, drawing from its sulky and unwilling interior sounds of such solemn sweetness as made one pray involuntarily; and sometimes she played simply an accompaniment--sitting with lifted face and closed eyes, the veins swelling in her throat, but no sound coming from her moving lips. Already I had become her second shadow, and so I’d creep into the empty room after her, and listen to her playing, and once when I was greatly moved, she turned to me and said: “Little Sister”--the pet name she had graciously bestowed on me--“what does that make you think of?” And without a pause I answered eagerly: “A church--not,” I hurriedly explained, “not our church, but a great one with pictures, and lots of people, and lights and sweet-smoke!” Ah, how she laughed, and though it was but a husky whispering affair, it was still a very merry laugh, because of the light that danced so gaily to it in her eyes. She then informed me that the music had been a mere scrap from a famous oratorio, and that my “sweet-smoke” was called incense, and though she set me right, it was her harmless jest to use the word “sweet-smoke” herself ever after. We had been there but a little while, when one day I noticed something wrong with the music; the tones were weak and wavering, there seemed to be no certainty in her touch. Her little hand could not hold a simple chord with firmness, and then the next moment there was a soft crash of the yellow, old keys, as Linda sank forward helpless and panting. I sprang to help her, and between two struggling, unwilling breaths, I heard her whisper: “Must this go too? Dear God! must this go too?”