The man was a tuner of pianofortes.  He went away with that lesson in his heart, to come back to him repeatedly in his own work, day by day.  He had been believing in the twists and stretches; he began from that moment to believe in the music touches, far apart though they might come.  He lived from a different centre; the growth began to be according to the life.

“It’s queer,” he said once, long afterward, reminding Mr. Vireo of what he had spoken in the moment it was given through him, and then forgotten.  “A man can put himself a’most where he pleases.  Into a hurt finger or a toothache, till it is all one great pain with him; or outside of that, into something he cares for, or can do with his well hand, till he gets rid of it and forgets it.  There’s generally more comfort than ache, I do suppose, if we didn’t live right in the middle of the ache.  But you see, that’s the great secret to find out.  If ever we do get it,—­complete”—­

“Ah, that’s the resurrection and the life,” said Mr. Vireo.

Among the crowd that waited about the open chapel doors, and through the porches, and upon the stair-ways, one clear, sunny, October morning, on which the congregation would not gather quietly to its pews, stood this man, and many another man, and woman, and little child, to whom a word from Hilary Vireo was a word right out of heaven.

They would all have a first sight of him to-day,—­his first Sunday among them after the whole summer’s absence in Europe.  He might easily not get into his pulpit at all, but give his gift in crumbs, all the way along from the street curb-stones to the aisles in the church above,—­they waylaid him so to snatch at it from hand, face, voice, as he should come in.  It would not be altogether unlike Hilary Vireo, if seeing things this way, he stopped right there amongst them, to deal out heart-cheer and sympathy right and left, face to face, and hand to hand,—­the Gospel appointed for that day.

“What a crowd there’ll be in heaven about some people!” said a tall, good-looking man to Hilary Vireo, in an undertone, as he came up the sidewalk with him into the edge of these waiting groups.

“May be.  There’ll be some scattering, I fancy, that we don’t look for.  We shall find all our centres there,” returned Mr. Vireo, hastily, as his people closed about him and the hand-shaking began.

Christopher Kirkbright made his way to the stairs, as the passage on one side became cleared by the drifting of the parish over to the western door, by which the minister was entering.  A little way up he found his sister, sitting with a young woman in the deep window ledge at the turn, whence they could look quietly down and watch the scene.  Overhead, the heavy bell swung out slow, intermitted peals, that thrilled down through all the timbers of the building, and forth upon the crisp autumn air.

“My brother—­Miss Ledwith,” said Miss Euphrasia, introducing them.