The curate remained with the organ. It was silent, and so were his lips, but his heart--the music was not latent there, for his praise and thanksgiving ascended, without voice or instrument, essential harmony, to the ear that hears thought, and the heart that vibrates to every chord of feeling in the hearts it has created. Ah! what is it we send up thither, where our thoughts are either a dissonance or a sweetness and a grace? Alone in the dusky church, the curate’s ascended like a song of the angels, for his heart was all a thanksgiving--not for any perfected gift, but for many a lovely hope. He knelt down by the organ and worshipped the God and Father of the Lord Jesus Christ--that God and no other was the God of his expectation. When he rose from his knees, the church was dark, but through the windows of the clerestory many stars were shining. THE END. End of Project Gutenberg’s Thomas Wingfold, Curate, by George MacDonald