“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: “Rock of ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee!”