“Of course it was, and composed specially for this occasion, remember. You may abuse me in the papers, if you like, Betson; if there’s anything wrong--although I don’t think there is--lay the blame on me; but one thing I beg of you, and please tell the other fellows this, won’t you?--give a line or two of deserved praise to the organist and the music. Do, if you love me, Betson! The man’s a genius!--I’m not the only one who says so, although I was the first to recognize the fact. You’ll put in something nice about him, won’t you? and give the others the tip to do the same.” “I’ll go and see him; then I can do a special article on him.” “I wish you would; but remember he’s very shy, and if he suspects your purpose you won’t get anything out of him. He’s a recluse. Talk to him about organs and music, and let him think you’re merely a fellow-enthusiast.” “Never fear. I’ll manage him.” For a week Langly had feared he would not be equal to the ordeal that faced him. He was anxious, for Barney’s sake, to acquit himself well; but he was scarcely able to totter to the church and back to his rooms, although, when once seated before the banks of keys, renewed life seemed to animate his emaciated frame; but when the enthusiasm of playing passed away, he was left more deeply depressed than ever. Music was now a stimulant to him, and the longer the intoxication of sound lasted, the greater the reaction after. His whole frame trembled when he saw how large an audience was to listen on the wedding-day, and he prayed that strength might be given him to perform his part flawlessly. When at last the supreme moment came, he looked with breathless fear at his shaking hands hovering over the keys; but when he touched them, he heard the sweet, pure, liquid, low notes come firm and sustained, like tones from a mellow flute, and his whole being thrilled when he became conscious of the instantaneous hush that fell on the vast assemblage, as though all had simultaneously ceased to breathe, fearing to miss a single golden thread of melody, or the enchanting mingling of them into the divinest, most subdued harmony, as if a choir of nightingales were singing far off, almost, but not quite, beyond hearing distance. When the music, swelling from its soft beginning, rose towards its climax, Langly knew he was master of the instrument as he had never been before. All fear left him, and a wild exultation took its place. It mattered nothing whether one or a thousand listened. As he gazed upward, with rapt ecstatic face, it seemed to him that the sounds took the form of an innumerable host of angels, flying about the beetling cliff of pipes that towered above him, and his own soul floated there also. Marvelling at this aerial vision, he yet played with his almost miraculous skill to the end; and as the last notes died away he saw the angels drop their wings one by one and fade into the empty air. He pushed in the stop that shut off the bellows motor, and