But he did not
return it with a glance. Was it the brightness and innocence of the young
face that won upon him, or did it for the moment take its place as the
type of all beauty and innocence, and hold him to contemplation, as for
the last time. Was it really into the face of _that_ little child, dead
and buried since October, that he looked? or was _he_ really _here_, under
the roof of this poor organist, shut up with the warmth of his coal stove
this bright Christmas day, locked safe his secret thoughts, himself secure
with them?
At last some word or sound escaped the organist. He had gazed at Mr. Rush
till he seemed possessed of nightmare. So wild, so haggard, so awful, the
man's face appeared to him, that the cry, an involuntary one, expressed
better than any inquiry could have done, how much disturbed he was. The
stranger heard, and seemed to understand, for at the sound he rose
quickly, and laid the picture on the counter; not gently; at the same time
he looked at Summerman and laughed; but without merriment.
"Come," said Summerman quickly, "let me take your portrait. I have quite a
collection here, you see." And as he spoke he did not remove his eyes from
the stranger--he had come to the conclusion that he was mad, or in some
direful strait that made him almost irresponsible, and his first purpose
was one of helpful commiseration.
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