With his hat slightly lifted above his white head, he stood watching them out of sight.

Then he went to his organ, and very soon grand waves of melody rolled outward and upward, and blended themselves with the clear, soaring voice of Joel, the lad who blew the bellows of the instrument, and shared all his master's joy in it.

They played and sang until the Squire rose weary, but full of gladness.

The look of immortality was in his eyes, its sure and certain hope in his heart.

He let Joel lead him to his chair by the window, and then he said to himself with visible triumph: "What Mr.Spencer or anyone else writes about 'the Unknowable' I care not.