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The Perfect SolutionChapter 32: The Touch Of The Master's Hand free porn video
'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile.
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start the bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar. Then, two! Only two?
Two dollars, and who'll make it three?"
"Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
Going for three..." But, no,
from the room, far back, a grey-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
then wiping the dust from the old violin,
and tightening the loosened strings,
he played a melody pure and sweet,
as a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
with a voice that was quiet and low,
said, "What am I bid for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow.
"A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two?
Two thousand! And who'll make it three?
Three thousand, once; three thousand, twice,
and going and gone," said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand.
What changed its worth?" Swift came the reply:
"The touch of the Master's hand."
And many a man with life out of tune,
and battered and scarred with sin,
is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
much like the old violin.
A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
a game — and he travels on.
He is going once, and going twice,
He's going and almost gone.
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
never can quite understand
the worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
by the touch of the Master's hand.
"The Touch of the Master's Hand" By Myra B. Brooks Welch (1877-1959)
The young woman's voice echoed throughout the caverns beneath the cellars of the opera house, dwindling away into silence. She opened her eyes and found, much to her astonishment, that her angel's eyes were streaming with tears.
"Angel?" She asked hesitantly. "What is wrong? Was the song a poor choice? Or, was my voice too harsh on your ears from the years of neglect and disuse?"
"No, child," the angel smiled. "It is simply a joy to hear you sing once more. For a moment, when you sang, I remembered how it felt when I was your Papa. The song was wonderful and your voice heavenly. The feeling is gone now, but I do remember that you made me very proud, Christine. Your voice is truly a perfect instrument in every way."
Embarrassed, she turned away and studied a mote of dust on the floor. After a moment, she spoke quietly.
"Angel, I need to go to Erik. I am very worried about him. He should have awakened by now. Where is he, your room or mine?"
Wiping the tears from his cheeks, the angelic young man replied.
"He is in your room, child. I shall await you here. Call for me should you require anything and I will come straight away."
"Thank you, Angel."
She turned and walked down the short hallway. She stopped in front of the door to the room that belonged to her when she lived in the house with her Papa. Caught in her memories of the past, she smiled, raised her hand to the door and allowed her fingers to trace over the rose carved into the center of the door. Pressing her hand to the rough-hewn bloom, she bowed her head in silent prayer. Then, removing her hand from the door, she touched a kiss to her fingertips. She placed her hand back on the carving of the rose and turned her eyes heavenward.
"Help me, Lord. Help us both." She beseeched.
Erik raced through the dark alleys of La Rochelle. He could hear the angry shouts of the crowd chasing behind him. Disobeying his mother's rules, he had stolen out of his room and had visited the city under the sheltering cloak of nighttime's darkness. It was not the first time he had done this, nor was it the first time someone took note of his presence. It was simply the first time anyone actually caught sight of his masked face and was able to grab hold of him. Of course, his problem became infinitely more complex as the person holding his wrist refused to let go. By delaying his escape, his captor had the perfect opportunity to awaken the entire town, or so it seemed to the small boy.
Terror stole the breath from his throat and he silently watched as an enraged mob responded to the cries of "Help, monster!"
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