"But your poor horse," she said, cleverly changing her ground; "he is
quite tired out."
The Old Timer now joined earnestly in urging him to stay till the storm
was past. So, with a final look at the stream, The Pilot turned toward
the house.
Of course I knew what would happen. Before the evening was over he had
captured the household. The moment he appeared with dry things on he ran
to the organ, that had stood for ten years closed and silent, opened
it and began to play. As he played and sang song after song, the Old
Timer's eyes began to glisten under his shaggy brows. But when he
dropped into the exquisite Irish melody, "Oft in the Stilly Night," the
old man drew a hard breath and groaned out to me:
"It was her mother's song," and from that time The Pilot had him fast.
It was easy to pass to the old hymn, "Nearer, My God, to Thee," and then
The Pilot said simply, "May we have prayers?" He looked at Gwen, but she
gazed blankly at him and then at her father.
"What does he say, dad?"
It was pitiful to see the old man's face grow slowly red under the deep
tan, as he said:
"You may, sir. There's been none here for many years, and the worse for
us." He rose slowly, went into the inner room and returned with a Bible.
"It's her mother's," he said, in a voice deep with emotion.
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