The Return of the Lost Chord by Kathleen Graham PEACE and quietude had settled over the audience several minutes before. Eyes had been meekly closed and heads bowed lower over folded arms. But that had been sometime ago. Now more than a few guarded glances had been stolen at the timepiece on the wall, and Harold Pulsipher was certainly no exception in this case. Good Lord! Would the man never cease? Those visitors certainly had not come twenty-five miles just to hear this old man pray. They had not come especially to hear Harold's choir, either; but Harold felt that that was a chief reason, and once the music started they would be convinced that their coming had not been in vain. It was nice, having the big crowd there. Their praises would prove to exquisite Andre Hopper that he, Harold Pulsipher, could do big things and sway multitudes to his clever will. He squirmed around and looked back. There she was in the fourth row of the choir: slender, trim, blue-eyed, black-haired. A whimsical quirk showed at the corner of her finely cut mouth. Whenever it appeared, Harold wondered what that elusive tilt might mean. Harold, only son of the village merchant, had been sent to the city to college. At the end of the second quarter, death had suddenly taken his father. Harold had never resumed his school work. The two years that followed had given him distinction. More prominence than he had deserved, perhaps, but he gloried in it, and lived for more. He was not band and choir leader, sole owner of the town's one store, and the town's most promising actor all for nothing. His recent promotion to choir leader had heightened his person as well as the antagonism of the other hopeful aspirants of the community. He was used to envy by now. He would merely continue to impress and awe his fans, especially the fairer ones. For, tritely speaking, in the eyes of Harold, he was no less than the joyful answer to any maiden's prayer. Around the young things he assumed a most Godly attitude, most becoming he thought. Most fellows could not get away with it. A loud cough issuing from the back row turned his thought to the choir sixty young people, all varying from the ages of fifteen to thirty-five; that is, all but one. Josabelle Hopper, a spinster in the late sixties, had once been the arrogant possessor of a fairly good voice. The increasing years, however, had inevitably collected their tax, despite the fact that she still remained in the choir. Suddenly Harold Pulsipher wished he had given some excuse, lied, anything to remove her from the group. At first he had thought it gracious of him to agree with her that the extraordinary quality of her voice had improved with age. It was benevolent of him to humor the old lady's childish ways. People would think more of him, he sometimes concluded; and after all, wasn't that most important? Yet, she was the only drawback to possible great fame. His inward debates about the advantages and disadvantages of Josabelle's continued participation most often made him wish that he had listened to urgings by certain members of the congregation that she be dropped. Squinting out of narrowed lids, his gaze again rested upon Andre Hopper. Ah! He had, for a moment, forgotten her. Andre would compensate for all her aunt's foolishness. Something about the tranquil expression her face had now assumed attracted him. She, without doubt, was the prettiest as well as the finest singer present. What a satisfying impression she would make. ... It would contribute to the general one, too. She would be the soloist today, he decided. Somehow he had known she would be all the time; but even so it had been a good idea of his, if also a wild one, to select five to practice the solo aria. Just before the songs, he would choose the soloist. Without warning, the sonorous monotone ceased and was followed by a loud "Amen." A small nervous man in his early fifties arose. In a squeaky, high-pitched voice he chirped, "The next number on our program will be rendered by Brother Pulsipher's choir. This is the first public appearance of this organization, but judging from Brother Pulsipher's other recent successes we are confident of the outcome of the occasion. After the first song we will ask Brother Pulsipher to tell us what has contributed to his success and what are his plans for future enterprises." Harold found himself beaming, but caught himself. A fine start, he whispered, fine; but he, too, must appear impressive. Nevertheless, his success was assured; it would add another triumph to his score. He rose, five feet and four inches of pride and dignity, bowed low on either side to the scattered applause, and smiled condescendingly upon those below him. Children squirmed in their seats. Adults coughed, readjusted their positions, and waited. Harold waited too, until he felt that his magnetic eyes absolutely held every other. Behind him in the fourth row, Andre must be admiring likewise. Then in a powerful voice: "My dear brothers and sisters, I am deeply confident that from this supreme moment on, this little town of Roachville will indeed have a just cause to boast of such a vitally necessary and actively engaged organization as you see before you today. I am going to take this opportunity to assure you that the choir has without doubt reached its zenith, and today's performance will not unduly merit your kind attention, which is as I would have it be. I assure each and every one of you present that your kind interest is deeply felt and adequately esteemed." He paused, then announced the number, taken from Victor Herbert's musical productions. Harold had chosen the difficult selection to accomplish his purpose. After seeming to forget, he added that Sister Hopper would sing the solo aria. His athletic back, encased in a light suit reeking of newness and the nearest city's best shop, and the rear of his carefully brushed blond head were turned to the gaze of the audience. His arms were stretched forward to the choir and held stiff. On the left hand, his feminine fingers, boasting easy pursuits, were extended wide apart, On the right hand, the little finger tweaked upward and was directly perpendicular to the baton held tightly between the thumb and first three fingers. With feet planted firmly together and head up, he made a curious gyration of the baton. The choir noisily arose, the music began and so did Sister Hopper, Sr. (Continued on Page 23) page SIX