You don't think, miss, that a great person like God cares whether we pray to him in a room or in a church ?" "No, I don't," answered Mary.

"For my own part, I find I can pray best at home." "So can I," said Joseph, with solemn fervor.

"Indeed, miss, I can't pray at all sometimes till I get my fiddle under my chin, and then it says the prayers for me till I grow able to pray myself.

And sometimes, when I seem to have got to the outside of prayer, and my soul is hungrier than ever, only I can't tell what I want, all at once I'm at my fiddle again, and it's praying for me.

And then sometimes it seems as if I lost myself altogether, and God took me, for I'm nowhere and everywhere all at once." Mary thought of the "groanings that can not be uttered." Perhaps that is just what music is meant for--to say the things that have no shape, therefore can have no words, yet are intensely alive--the unembodied children of thought, the eternal child.