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“From Lueneburg.”

“You walked?”

The youth nodded.

“I have seen you before, here.”

“Yes.”

The old man watched him a minute. “You ought to have some beer with that bread and cheese,” he said. “Have you no coppers?”

The youth shook his head. “Reinken is my beer,” he said, after a little. His face was lighted with a sweet smile.

The old man chuckled. “Ja, ja!” He limped from the room. Presently he returned with a pewter mug. It was foaming at the top. “Drink that,” he commanded.

The youth drank it with hearty quaffs and laughed when it was done. “Ja, that is good!” he said simply.

The old man eyed him shrewdly. “In half an hour Reinken comes to play,” he suggested craftily.

The youth started and flushed. “To-night?”

“Ja.”

“I did not think he came at night,” he said softly.

“Not often, but to-night. He wants to practise something for the festival–with no one to hear,” he added significantly.

The boy looked at him pleadingly. His hand strayed to his pockets. They brought back two coppers, the only wealth he possessed.

The old man looked at him kindly and shook his head. “Nein,” he said. “It is not for the money I shall do it. It is because I have seen you before–when he played. You shall hear him and see him. Come.” He put aside the youth’s impulsive hand, and led the way up a winding, dark stairway, through a little door in the organ-loft. Groping along the wall he slipped back a panel.

The boy peered out. Below him, a little to the left, lay the great organ, and far below in the darkness stretched the church. When he turned, the old man was gone. Down below in the loft he watched his twinkling path as the taper flashed from candle to candle.

The great Reinken was a little late. He came in hurriedly, pushing back the sleeves of his scholar’s gown as they fell forward on his hands. The hands were wrinkled, the boy noted, and old. He had forgotten that the master was old. Sixty years–seventy–ah, more than seventy. Nine years ago he was that–at the Bach festival. The boy’s heart gave a leap. Seventy-nine–an old man! … he should never meet him in open festival and challenge him. There would not be time…. The music stole about him and quieted his pulse. He stood watching the face as it bent above the keys. It was a noble face. There was a touch of petulance in it, perhaps of pride and impatience in the quick glance that lifted now and then. But it was a grand face, with goodness in it, and strength and power. The boy’s heart went from him…. If he might but touch a fold of the faded gown–seek a blessing from the wrinkled hands on the keys. Spring was about him–white clouds and blossoms and the smell of fresh earth. “By the waters, the waters of Babylon; by the waters.” The slender, delicate hands called out the notes one by one. Tears ran down the boy’s face. Gropingly he felt for the door–only to seek a blessing of the hands….

The old verger waited at the foot of the stairs, nodding in the dim light. He sprang up, startled and rubbing his eyes.

“I want to speak to him,” said the youth humbly. “Only a word!”

The old man hesitated. The music had ceased and a slow step was coming down the church–an old man’s step.

“Ja. Stand there,” he whispered. “It shall be as you wish. Stand there!” He pushed the youth behind a pillar and stepped forward, his taper held aloft.

“Mein Herr,” he said softly.

The organist paused and looked at him inquiringly. His face was very tired. “What wouldst thou, Wilhelm?” he said gently.

“It is a young man–” he stammered and paused.

“A young man?”

“He would speak with you, Mein Herr–but a word.” The old man’s voice waited.

“Speak with me? Does he bring credentials?”

“Nay, your honor—-“

The great organist drew his gown about him. “I have not time, Wilhelm. Many seek me and life runs fast. I have not time.” He bowed courteously and moved on. As he passed the pillar a fold of his robe floated out and touched the hand of the youth, kneeling there, hidden in the dim light.