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A twinkle came into the keen eyes. “And one of them you have lost to-day,” he said dryly. He cocked his eye a trifle toward the heavy church that rose behind them.

The other looked quickly around.

“That S’bastian–was he here?” he demanded.

“In there,” replied the tall man, smiling. “No, no!” he laid his hand on his companion’s arm as he started forward. “Let be–let be!… We must help him–that boy. You have not heard him play my organ. Wait!” He held up his hand…. Music was stealing from the gloomy shadows of the church.

“Come in,” said the master. He pushed open a low door and they entered the great church. Far up in the loft, struck by a shaft of light from a gable in the roof, the boy was sitting, absorbed in sound. His face was bent to the keys as his hands hovered and paused over them and drew forth the strangely sweet sounds that filled the great building.

The two musicians below stood looking up, their big heads nodding time…. Suddenly they paused and looked at each other with questioning glance. The music was quickening and broadening with a clear, glad reach of sound, and underneath it ran a swiftly echoing touch that bound the notes together and vibrated through them.

“How was he doing that?” whispered the small man excitedly. “You have taught him that?”

The other shook his head.

“Come, we will see.”

Together they tiptoed through the dark church, softly–up to the organ-loft and peered in. The boy, oblivious to sight and sound, played on.

Kerlman leaned far forward, craning his neck. He drew back, a look of stupefaction in his face. He held up his large thumb and looked at it soberly.

“What is it?” whispered the other.

“You see, Johannes Bohm?” He shook the fat thumb in his companion’s face. “He does it with that!”

The master peered forward, incredulous. Slowly he crept up behind the boy, his eyes fastened on the moving hands. His shadow fell on the keys and the boy looked up. His face lighted with a smile.

“Go on,” said the master sternly. His eyes still watched the hands. Slowly his big fingers reached over and grasped the thumb as it pressed lightly on a key. “Who told you that?” he demanded.

The boy looked down at it, puzzled. Then his face grew a little ashamed and doubtful. “It is wrong, I know,” he admitted. “Yes, it is wrong.”

“Who taught you?”

“Nay, no one would teach it. I just happened–one day. It makes it so easy.”

“Yes, I see.” The master’s voice was curt.

“I will never do it again,” said the boy humbly.

“No–you might play it for me once–just once, for me,” said the master.

The boy’s hands ran lovingly to the keys. They crept along the maze of sound and rose and fell in the changing rhythm. Shyly the small thumb darted out and found its key, and filled the great church with the tremulous, haunting call of note answering note.

The master bending over the keys wiped his brow and looked at the boy proudly, with a little wonder in his face. “Good…. Ach–but good, good!” he murmured softly.

The boy looked up quickly. His clear skin flushed. “May I use it–sometimes?” he asked, doubting.

Bohm gave a sharp, generous laugh. “You may use it.” He laughed again. “All the world will use it!” he said, patting him on the back. “It is a great discovery. Play more.”

The boy turned obediently to the keys, and while he played, the master slipped away. “Come down,” he whispered to Kerlman, whose fat bulk filled the doorway. “Let us come down and get some beer. I am very dry this day.”

Over their mugs, in the garden across the way, they looked at each other solemnly. Then they threw back their big heads and laughed till their sides shook and their wigs stood askew. Kerlman laid his fat thumb on the table and regarded it respectfully. “Gott im Himmel!” he said.