September 1931
404
T h e
K i n g ’ s
B u s i n e s s
Dick Burling leaned over to Marian Linton. “That man sure has something that most of us know nothing about,’’ he said. Marian did not answer; her eyes were filled with tears. A murmur of quiet conversation arose, and then the hostess was asking them to step over into the other rooms which had been deserted during the recital. A transfor mation had taken place. On tables and stands of various kinds, on chairs and bric-a-brac, was spread a most amaz ing array of curious-looking objects. There was a little black frying pan, and near it a porous plaster. Here was an English postage stamp, there a single well-worn glove, a pair of scissors, some eggs, a hammer, a needle and thread, a piece of burnt paper, an onion, and many other things. The articles were all numbered. To each guest was given a typewritten sheet contain ing a list of titles—apparently of works of art. They bore such intriguing titles as “A Drive through the Wood,” “Deer in Winter,” “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” “Emperor of India,” “A Good Fellow Gone,” and so on. The game was to attach the “picture” by number to the proper title. The guests were soon engaged, amid much merriment, in identifying each piece of art. As Marion Linton, with Dick Burling, moved away from one of the tables, they found their progress checked by a tall, statuesque beauty whose eyes were fastened on Dick’s averted face. Presently he straightened up and turned toward her. “Why, hello, Dot. I have hardly seen you this eve ning.” “No, I don’t think you have.” Her voice was smooth as satin, but there was a knife- like edge to it, which Burling caught, if Marian did not. It was well known that the wealthy and beautiful Dor othy Hepburn was considered by her adoring mother and most of her friends as an ideal match for Richard Bur ling. They moved in the same social circle and were often seen together. Dick liked Dot, but he resented her get ting angry every time he ventured to show any attention to another girl. The square set of his chin should have warned her now, but it did not. She looked him full in the face and said, in a petulant tone, “Are you going to help me find these queer things ?” Dick Burling was a gentleman always; he could not be rude. But he was angry. Marian sensed the situation and started to walk away, but he caught her by the hand and drew her back to his side. “Dot, meet my friend, Miss Linton. Miss Hepburn,” he said to Marian, with a reassuring smile. Miss Hepburn bowed. “Miss Linton,” she murmured. But as Dick looked away for a moment, Marian caught [Continued on page 40S] Grace and Glory The Lord who says that He will give grace now tells you that He will give glory (Psa. 84:11). Wait a little longer. The sun which shineth more and more will come to perfect day. “It is better on before.” Glory will soon be in your actual possession, much sooner than you think. Between you and heaven there may be but a step. Per haps ere another sun has risen on the earth you may be hold the face “of the King in his 'beauty in the land that is very far off.” At any rate, here is comfort for you : the same Lord who will give grace will also give glory. —C. H. S purgeon .
the keyboard under his magic touch. As he finished, there was a breathless moment and then wild applause. He rose and bowed smilingly and, seating himself, began to play again as few of them had ever before heard any one play. And then a woman sang, a woman with a glorious voice. She, too, responded to an encore. There were two children who played violins, after which Joyce Goodwin was called. Her reading held rapt attention from the open ing word to the last line, and she was generously and in-, sistently applauded. She gave as her second number a humorous selection that kept the company in gales of laughter. The singer stepped forward for her second number. She was a young woman who, a few years before, had been known on the concert stage, but she had given it up. She was now soloist in a large city church. Again she rendered a well-chosen song that brought out in all its beauty the power and range of her magnificent voice. They insisted upon an encore and would not be denied. She stepped close to the pianist and whispered a word to him. They saw him bow his head in assent, and then, without music before either of them, he began to play and she to sing. It was a simple little melody and a song about the grace and goodness of God, but the words and the richness and tenderness of the singer’s voice touched hearts with melting power. There were tears in many eyes when she finished, and the applause was hushed, almost reverent. In the silence that followed, the pianist rose to his feet. He stood for a moment, and then, turning to Mrs. Torrington, he asked, “May I be permitted to speak a word?” “Certainly,” she answered graciously. “My friends,” he began, “I love music; it is my life. I have played and studied it since I was a child. I was trained for the opera. The height of my ambition was to compose and play and sing for the opera, and I have done it. But I was not happy, I was not satisfied. And then I met One, beside whom all else seemed to pale into insig nificance. My ambition became as nothing. With your kind permission, I will try to tell you in music something of what He means to me.” At the first touch, there was a power beyond anything they had yet heard. It was the old, familiar song that most of them had known from childhood, “There’s not a friend like the lowly Jesus, No, not one! No, not one!” Line by line, full and strong rose the melody, accom panied by innumerable trills and runs that seemed to bring music from every key on the board; and at its proper place came the response, as from distant church chimes, “No, not one! No, not one!” Verse after verse was played, each in a different way, some loud and strong, some soft and sweet, some in the high treble notes, others in tones low and deep. Never before had such music grown from a simple hymn, and thrillingly the chimes continued to respond, “No, not one! No, not one!” With scarcely a perceptible pause, he swung into the matchless hymn of consecration, “Take my life, and let it be, Consecrated, Lord, to Thee.” Again verse after verse rolled forth, the instrument all but sounding the words, the chimes now silent, now ringing out in indescribable beauty. He stopped for a second, but not a sound stirred the room. He began to sing in a rich tenor voice. Through the entire hymn he sang, seemingly conscious only of the listening ear of Him to whom he breathed his prayer. As he finished, he rose and bowed to an absolutely silent company and left the room.
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