Nancy’s heart fluttered like a captive bird.  For a brief space she leaned against the cold railings, looking intently at a branch of ivy which the north wind was tossing against the diamond-shaped panes of the window—­then she drew herself up hastily and proudly, and walked on rapidly towards the bleak hills which she must cross to reach her father’s farm at Braley Brook.

“How I wish I was out of my time,” she said to herself, as the crisp snow crackled beneath her small feet.  “I could go away then and earn my living, where I could never see him—­or hear him—.  Oh, Fred!” she broke out in what was almost a cry, “why have you met me and walked with me so often, if you meant to leave off and say no more?  It must be because my dress has grown so shabby—­I don’t look so—­so nice as I did—­yet if his father were not hard I might have more.”  And poor Nancy being now far from any habitation gave herself the relief of a good cry, knowing she could not be observed.

In the meantime the organ at the church had ceased playing, and the young man who was seated at it began turning over a pile of music which lay beside him.  But this he did mechanically—­he was not going to play again that evening, he did it as an accompaniment to perplexed thought.  He remained so long silent that Benny Dodd, who had been “blowing” for him, ventured out from among the shadows cast by the organ pipes and asked, “Please, Mr. Fred, are you going to play any more?”

Fred Hurst looked up smiling, and feeling in his waistcoat pocket for the customary coin, said cheerfully, “I had quite forgotten you, Benny!  No, I shall not play any more to-night.”

The small boy clattered down the stone aisle noisily, and Fred Hurst began to push in the stops preparatory to closing the organ.  In doing so he caught a glimpse of his face in the small mirror which hung at one side, and he burst out laughing.

“What a tragic look I have managed to put on,” he thought.  Then he locked the organ, and was about to blow out the candles, when he changed his mind and took out a scrap of printed paper from his pocket and read it by their light.  It was a favourable review of a song he had composed, and which had just been published.  “Though there is no genius displayed in this little composition, it is extremely pleasing; the air is catching, and the accompaniment is tuneful without ostentation.  ’Winged Love’ should become a popular favourite.”  This is what he read; and having read it (of course not for the first time), he seemed to form a sudden resolution on the strength of it.  He looked at his watch; it marked a few minutes past six; he blew out the lights and left the church, hesitating a moment by the railings on which Nancy had leaned an hour before.  “I think this justifies me,” he meditated.  “If ’Winged Love’ is so well spoken of I am sure to get on, and in time make an income sufficient for us two:  poor child, she hasn’t been used to luxuries, and a simple home would content her.  She must be part way home by now.  Yes, I will follow Nancy, and explain why I have not met her for so long, and ask her to love me and wait till I can ask her to be my wife.”