"You seem rather interested in the cathedral. Very much interested,"
remarked the man, strengthening his statement and with increased
attention.
"Why, of course, Mister. I've been passing there nearly every day since
I've been selling papers on the avenue. Sometimes I stop and watch the
masons. When I went with Granny to the art school this morning, she told
me to go home that way. I have just come from there. They are building
another one of the chapels now, and the men are up on the scaffolding.
They carried more rock up than they needed and they would walk to the
edge and throw big pieces of it down with a smash. The old house they
are using for the choir school is just under there. Sometimes when the
class is practising, I listen from the outside. If they sing high, I
sing high; if they sing low, I sing low. Why, Mister, I can sing up
to--"
He broke off abruptly. He had been pouring-out all kinds of confidences
to his new-found friend. Now he hesitated. The boldness of his nature
deserted him. The deadly preparedness failed. A shy appealing look came
into his eyes as he asked his next question--a grave question indeed:
"_Mister, do you love music?_"
"Do I love music?" echoed the startled musician, pierced by the
spear-like sincerity of the question, which seemed to go clean through
him and his knowledge and to point back to childhood's springs of
feeling.
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