neatness. She could work with no peace
of mind until the house had been swept and dusted. A fly speck on the
window was enough to cloud her day. She went to town with David now and
then--not oftener than once a quarter--and came back ill and exhausted.
If she sat in a store waiting for David, while he went to mill or
smithy, her imagination gave her no rest. That dirt abhorring mind of
hers would begin to clean the windows, and when that was finished it
would sweep the floor and dust the counters. In due course it would
lower the big chandelier and take out all the lamps and wash the
chimneys with soap and water and rub them till they shone. Then,
if David had not come, it would put in the rest of its time on the
woodwork. With all her cleaning I am sure the good woman kept her soul
spotless. Elizabeth Brower believed in goodness and the love of God, and
knew no fear. Uncle Eb used to say that wherever Elizabeth Brower went
hereafter it would have to be clean and comfortable.

Elder Whitmarsh came often to dinner of a Sunday, when he and Mrs Brower
talked volubly about the Scriptures, he taking a sterner view of God
than she would allow. He was an Englishman by birth, who had settled in
Faraway because there he had found relief for a serious affliction of
asthma.

He came over one noon in the early summer, that followed the event of
our last chapter, to tell us of a strawberry party that evening at the
White Church.

'I've had a wonderful experience,' said he as he took a seat on the
piazza, while Mrs Brower came and sat near him. 'I've discovered a great
genius--a wandering fiddler, and I shall try to bring him to play for
us.'

'A fiddler! why, Elder!' said she, 'you astonish me!'

'Nothing but sacred music,' he said, lifting his hand. 'I heard him play
all the grand things today--"Rock of Ages", "Nearer My God, to Thee",
"The Marseillaise" and "Home, Sweet Home". Lifted me off my feet! I've
heard the great masters in New York and London, but no greater player
than this man.'

'Where is he and where did he come from?'

'He's at my house now,' said the good man. 'I found him this morning. He
stood under a tree by the road side, above Nortlrup's. As I came near
I heard the strains of "The Marseillaise". For more than an hour I
sat there listening. It was wonderful, Mrs Brower, wonderful! The poor
fellow is eccentric. He never spoke to me. His clothes were dusty and
worn. But his music went to my heart like a vo