"
The small boy clattered down the stone aisle noisily, and Fred Hurst
began to push in the stops preparatory to closing the organ. In doing so
he caught a glimpse of his face in the small mirror which hung at one
side, and he burst out laughing.
"What a tragic look I have managed to put on," he thought. Then he
locked the organ, and was about to blow out the candles, when he changed
his mind and took out a scrap of printed paper from his pocket and read
it by their light. It was a favourable review of a song he had composed,
and which had just been published. "Though there is no genius displayed
in this little composition, it is extremely pleasing; the air is
catching, and the accompaniment is tuneful without ostentation. 'Winged
Love' should become a popular favourite." This is what he read; and
having read it (of course not for the first time), he seemed to form a
sudden resolution on the strength of it. He looked at his watch; it
marked a few minutes past six; he blew out the lights and left the
church, hesitating a moment by the railings on which Nancy had leaned an
hour before. "I think this justifies me," he meditated. "If 'Winged
Love' is so well spoken of I am sure to get on, and in time make an
income sufficient for us two: poor child, she hasn't been used to
luxuries, and a simple home would content her. She must be part way home
by now. Yes, I will follow Nancy, and explain why I have not met her for
so long, and ask her to love me and wait till I can ask her to be my
wife.
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