Then with the active desire to get into Martin’s sympathy he went on. “And what was that beautiful, exquisite tune you played us before service?” Martin brightened. “Ah, I am glad you liked it,” he said, cordially. “Is it not beautiful? It was Wagner,--the beginning of the overture to ‘Lohengrin.’” Mr. Challoner’s face grew suddenly grave. Wagner was identified with “Tannhäuser” to him. “Certainly it was most, beautiful,” he said; “but do you think it is quite--quite suitable to play something from an opera in church, before the Holy Communion, too? One wants everything, is it not so, to be of the highest?” Mr. Milton’s “Kyrie” occurred to Martin, but he dismissed it. “I don’t see why one shouldn’t play an opera overture, father,” he said. “Does not the fact that it is beautiful make it suitable?” “But the associations of it?” said his father. “I don’t suppose anybody knew what it was except me,” said Martin. “I am sorry if you think I should not have played it. But really I had no time to think. I was nearly late, and on the organ there was only a book of dreadful extracts, chiefly by organists. But I will play something definitely sacred at the eleven o’clock service. That is if you would like me to play again.” “Thank you, dear lad, thank you. Ah, what a lovely morning! Look at the hills. ‘I will lift up mine eyes to the hills.’ How wonderful the appreciation of natural beauty in the Psalms is,--‘Sweeter also than honey,’--so many of David’s similes are drawn from ordinary, every-day sensations, but lifted up, ennobled, dedicated. But how was it you were nearly late? I looked into your room before I started for church and found you had already gone!” “I went down to bathe,” said Martin; “in fact, it was only the bell beginning that reminded me there was service at eight.” Mr. Challoner looked at him a moment with a sort of appeal. “But, dear Martin,” he said, “you did not come without preparation?” “I am afraid I did,” said Martin, and the joy of his waking hours dropped utterly dead, while the hopelessness of the compact of the evening before rose close in front of him. They took a turn up and down the lawn before going in, and his father very gently, but very firmly impressed on him the positive sin of his omission. His voice trembled with the earnestness of his feeling, for to him the danger of coming to the Communion unprepared was as vital as the need for coming. He hated to say what he felt he must say; it was so soon after their compact to try to understand one another, to get on without perpetual correction and admonishment. But this could not be left unsaid. Once it occurred to Martin to tell him the truth, to say, “I came in order to please you; otherwise I should not,” but the impulse passed. There was no need to give his father such pain as that; and he merely assented dully where assent was needed, said, “Yes, I see,” at intervals, and gave the promise required. But it was a dreary beginning to the day.