So I set about getting a hold of anything he did
say, and trying to do it. And then it was that I first began to
be able to play on the fiddle, though I had been muddling away at
it for a long time before. I knew I could play then, because I
understood what it said to me, and got help out of it. I don't
really mean that, you know, miss; for I know well enough that the
fiddle in itself is nothing, and nothing is anything but the way
God takes to teach us. And that's how I came to know you, miss."
"How do you mean that?" asked Mary.
"I used to be that frightened of Sister Ann that, after I came to
London, I wouldn't have gone near her, but that I thought Jesus
Christ would have me go; and, if I hadn't gone to see her, I
should never have seen you. When I went to see her, I took my
fiddle with me to take care of me; and, when she would be going
on at me, I would just give my fiddle a squeeze under my arm, and
that gave me patience."
"But we heard you playing to her, you know."
"That was because I always forgot myself while she was talking.
The first time, I remember, it was from misery--what she was
saying sounded so wicked, making God out not fit for any honest
man to believe in. I began to play without knowing it, and it
couldn't have been very loud, for she went on about the devil
picking up the good seed sown in the heart. Off I went into that,
and there I saw no end of birds with long necks and short legs
gobbling up the corn.
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