ime it lay hidden away in the
closet, and was now telling out its dreams about the old times in the
ear of the listening boy. To him also it began to assume something of
that mystery and life which had such a softening, and, for the moment at
least, elevating influence on his master.

At length the love of the violin had grown upon him so, that he could
not but cast about how he might enjoy more of its company. It would not
do, for many reasons, to go oftener to the shoemaker's, especially
now that the days were getting longer. Nor was that what he wanted.
He wanted opportunity for practice. He wanted to be alone with the
creature, to see if she would not say something more to him than she had
ever said yet. Wafts and odours of melodies began to steal upon him ere
he was aware in the half lights between sleeping and waking: if he could
only entice them to creep out of the violin, and once 'bless his humble
ears' with the bodily hearing of them! Perhaps he might--who could tell?
But how? But where?

There was a building in Rothieden not old, yet so deserted that its very
history seemed to have come to a standstill, and the dust that filled it
to have fallen from the plumes of passing centuries. It was the property
of Mrs. Falconer, left her by her husband. Trade had gradually ebbed
away from the town till the thread-factory stood unoccupied, with all
its machinery rusting and mouldering, just as the work-people had risen
and left it one hot, midsummer day, when they were told that their
services were no longer required. Some of the thread even remained upon
the spools, and in the hollows of some of the sockets the oil had as yet
dried only into a paste; although to Robert the desertion of the place
appeared immemorial. It stood at a furlong's distance from the house, on
the outskirt of the town. There was a large, neglected garden behind it,
with some good fruit-trees, and plenty of the bushes which boys love
for the sake of their berries. After grannie's jam-pots were properly
filled, the remnant of these, a gleaning far greater than the gathering,
was at the disposal of Robert, and, philosopher although in some measure
he was already, he appreciated the privilege. Haunting this garden in
the previous summer, he had for the first time made acquaintance with
the interior of the deserted factory. The door to the road was always
kept locked, and the key of it lay in one of grannie's drawers; but he
had then discovered a b