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Show I T was early twilight in th~ littl~ shop. Bibbs lit a candle, set astde hts pots of glue & varnish, and s~ood thr~mming the solemn old Arnatt he had Just mended, and then he played a strain of music on its silver string. It was "The Song of Faith" from "Elijah." A deep amen went booming under the red dome of the bass viol that lay in a corner, and a low wail of sympathy swept through the cases on the counter and along the walls-the voice of those condemned to silence in this little shop. "Yes, yes," said Bibbs tenderly, "Oh rest in Time, for Time is the Lord, and 4 there is time enough to make all things perfect, even men. You are like a soul. When you were only seventy years old, I suppose the devil had his home in you as he has in me. Goodness is but harmony, and you might be better, you red-bellied son of a whittier." As had been his custom by day for years, Bibbs carefully inspected the joinings of the Stradivarius. Then again he held his ear against it, and the strings broke into song at the touch of his beard. "That voice of yours! I wonder what it will be a thousand years from now. Your old body will turn to splinters and to dust some time. Wood can't last forever any more than Resh and blood. When your voice is near perfection you will not be strong enough to stand the strain of the strings, and then-well, 5 I |