"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?"
A YOUNG man accepted the position of organist in one of the principal churches of a Texas city. He was a fine musician, but being blind, was unable to read in the faces of his audience the great pleasure his music was giving. He was master of the organ, and his caressing touch on the keyboard sent out through its great pipes the songs of his soul—his cry to his kind. They listened enchanted, and would talk to each other about the beauty of his harmonies, the uplifting influence of his symphonies. At first he played as one sure of himself. There was no hesitation in his touch. Then there pealed forth splendid pæans of praise, and cadences of majestic sweetness and power. As he played Sabbath after Sabbath they noticed that the erstwhile triumphant strains of voluntaries and recessionals had given place to delicate, sorrowful improvisations to plaintive minor fugues. The people listened in rapture, and often the sweetness of the harmonies sent tears adown furrowed cheeks of those who had lived and suffered—who by the blind man's music were comforted. But alas! they never thought to tell the player; they did not know for what his heart was longing. One morning it was announced that he would play no more after that service; that his decision was final, and another organist must be secured. After the service, a lady who had enjoyed all his music thoroughly went up to him, and said, very earnestly: "I am sorry you will not play for us longer. I have enjoyed your music so much. It has helped me greatly; it has soothed and comforted me when I sorrowed. I have thought many times I would tell you what an inspiration I have received through your music. I thank you for it." The young man's voice faltered, and the tears rushed to his sightless eyes, as he whispered, "O! why didn't you tell me? I, too, needed comfort and inspiration."—Baltimore Methodist.