eeing."

The church was open, so they stepped from the sunshine outside into the
soft diffused golden light glowing on sandstone pillars, oak-beamed
roof, and saint-filled windows. It was newly decorated for harvest
festival--great clumps of Michaelmas daisies hid the font, scarlet
bryony berries trailed from the lectern, and chrysanthemums screened the
pulpit. The air was sweet with the scent of flowers. Lorraine led the
way to the chancel, and, moving aside some torch lilies, disclosed to
view the end of a choir-bench, where, on the ancient black oak, was
roughly carved the figure of a mermaid, with comb and glass in hand.

"There's a story about her," said Lorraine. "There was a young fisherman
who sang in the choir. He had such a lovely voice that it was more
beautiful even than her own, and she fell in love with him. She used to
come on Sunday evenings and sit outside the church to listen to him
singing. Then, one day when he was out in his boat, she rose up from the
waves and beckoned to him. He rowed close to her, and she suddenly
clasped him in her arms and carried him down into the sea. He was never
seen again; and the villagers carved the picture of the mermaid in the
church to remind people of what had happened."

"What a most amazing story! I must tell Daddy. Perhaps he'll like to
draw that too," said Claudia. "By the by, where's Landry?" looking round
anxiously after her charge.

"He's all right," Morland assured her. "He's gone up those dusty stairs
into a little musty, cobwebby gallery. He always goes and sits there
while I'm practising the organ. Can't think why he should like it; but
he doesn't do any harm, so I let him. Look! You can see him."

Morland pointed upwards, where, at the west end of the church, ran a
small gallery. Over its carved oak balustrade leaned Landry, like a
cherub on a Jacobean monument. The sunlight, glinting through the window
above, turned his golden curls into a halo.

"He's waiting for me to play," continued Morland.

"Oh, do!" cried Lorraine.

The organ was unlocked, so Morland seated himself and began to improvise
slow, dreamy, haunting music, that rose and fell through the little
church like the murmur of the sea. Whatever faults of character the boy
might have, his face was rapt when he played, and to Lorraine it seemed
as if the very saints and angels in the stained-glass windows were
looking and listening. Landry sat with parted lips and far-away blue
eyes.