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It was he who built in the organ which has such
extraordinary tones, whose thundering bass
sometimes bursts forth in the middle of a peaceful
anthem—how or why, none can say—and sets all the
children howling in church at Christmas matins.
That the young organ-builder was a master of
his craft may well be doubted, but he was a bonny
fellow with sunshine in his eyes. He had a pleasant
word for every one,—for rich and poor, old and
young.
When he came home from his work in the evening,
he would hold Fru Moreus’s skein, dig side
by side with the young girls in the rose-garden,
declaim Axel and sing Frithiof, and he picked up
Mamselle Marie’s ball of thread as often as she let
it drop, and even set her clock going.
He never came away from a ball without having
danced with every woman there, from the oldest
matron to the youngest slip of a girl, and when
some adversity befell him, he would sit down beside
the first woman he chanced to meet and make her
his confidant. He was the manner of man women
create in their dreams. It cannot be said that he
spoke to any one of love, but he had not been many
weeks at Fru Moreus’s before all the girls were in
love with him. As for poor Mamselle Marie, she
had prayed her prayers in vain.
That was a time of sorrow and a time of joy.
Tears rained on the quilting-frame, blotting out the
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