Several heads were turned to see the speaker, and women peeped over their husbands' shoulders to look. They saw a child in green knickerbockers and a gray jersey, his hand in that of a surprised young girl, and his determined face and oddly tranquil eyes turned purposefully to the auctioneer. "Make it a quarter," said a man lounging against the leader-pipe. "Two and a quarter," said the auctioneer. "I'm bid two dollars and a quarter for the organ." "Two dollars and fifty cents," said the young bidder, a shade of excitement now betraying itself in his voice. The girl opened her mouth, perhaps to protest, and then closed it again. "Two-fifty!" bawled the auctioneer. "Two-fifty? Going--any more? Going--going--" he brought his big hands together with a slap, "_Gone!_ at two dollars _and_ fifty cents, to--who's the party, Ben?" Ben, harassed, pencil in mouth, professed ignorance. "Kirkleigh Sturgis," said the owner of the musical instrument, "Winterbottom Road." "Mister Sturgis," said the auctioneer, while Ben scribbled. "Step right up, young man. Give Ben your money and put your pianner in your pocket. Now folks, the next article--" Kirk and Felicia, not to speak of the organ, two chairs, a wash-basin, a frying-pan, two boxes of candles, a good mop, and a pot of soft soap, were all carted home by the invaluable Hop. They met Ken, in from his second trip, in the middle of Winterbottom Hill, and they gave him a lift. "Oh, if you knew what you're sitting on!" Phil chuckled. "Good heavens! Will it go off?" cried Ken, squirming around to look down at his seat. "I thought it was a chest, or something." "It's--a melodeon!" Phil said weakly. "A melodeon! Oh, ye gods and little fishes!" shouted Ken. "Oh, my prophetic soul!" and he laughed all the way to Applegate Farm. But while Felicia was clattering pans in the kitchen, and Ken went whistling through the orchard twilight to the well, the purchaser of the organ felt his way to it, not quite sure, yet, of its place by the window. He sat down in front of it, and pressed the stiff old pedals. His careful fingers found a chord, and the yellow notes responded with their sweet, thin cadence--the _vox humana_ stop was out. He pulled, by chance, the diapason, and filled the room with deep, shaken notes. Half frightened at the magic possibilities, he slipped from the chair and ran out into the young May night, to whisper to it something of the love and wonder that the Maestro's music was stirring in him. Here in the twilit dooryard he was found by his brother, who gave him the hand unoccupied by the bucket and led him in to the good, wholesome commonplaces of hearth-fire and supper and the jolliest of jokes and laughter. CHAPTER IX FAME COMES COURTING