His mournful eyes seemed looking into another world, while his fingers wandered over the keys with the musical instinct of his race.
John Jay slipped inside and crouched down behind a tall pew.

The only music that he had been accustomed to was the kind that Uncle Billy scraped from his fiddle and plunked on his banjo.

It was the gay, rollicking kind, that put his feet to jigging and every muscle in his body quivering in time.

This made him want to cry; yet it was so sweet and deep and tender as it went rolling softly down the aisles, that he forgot all about the eggs and Miss Hallie.

He forgot that he was John Jay.