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Show 125 hymn, he had f i n a l l y realized-and was ready for vindication. He burst from his house, stumbling down the broken porch, and careened down the town's main street toward the bishop's house, where he beat on the door. The bishop received him mildly despite the hour, but Lorin's great-uncle had come not to submit but to gloat. Pushing past the bishop he entered the small dining room and sat down at the battered upright piano on which, with two unsteady fingers, he picked through the melody that by now was burned indelibly onto his brain. "Ever heard i t before?" he asked when i t was over. The bishop shook his head. "All r i g h t , l i s t e n again," said Lorin's great-uncle and played i t again, this time adding tentative harmonies with his l e f t hand. "Sure you've never heard i t before," he asked, a small look of triumph beginning to creep into his face. The bishop was sure. " I t 's pretty, though, Earl," he said. "You make i t up yourself?" "No, by God, I did not make i t up myself!" cried Lorin's great-uncle, reeling on the piano bench, hugging himself. "Now l i s t e n ." In a voice hoarse with the day's abuse he roared the words to "Though Deepening Trials Throng Your Way," following not the melody in the Deseret Hymn Book but the melody revealed to him in the night, which he also pounded out on the piano, because though he could not read a note he had a good ear and could add r u f f l e s and ornaments to almost any tune, even one involving black keys. When he had finished he stood unsteadily and jabbed a finger into the bishop's chest. "What do you think of that, you holy t i t - wringer?" he said. The bishop, who ran a hardscrabble dairy farm at the edge of the county, did not have much use for music-that i s , he had no strong opinion one way or another (the battered upright in his house was played by his twelve-year-old daughter who had never gotten past "The Happy Farmer" and who now stood |