ets. When he himself would propose that his
daughter should "give them a little music,"--and he would make such a
proposition on every evening that was suitable,--he would never say
a word of those former performances at which he himself had taken a
part. But it had become known to Mrs. Arabin, through the servants,
that he had once dragged the instrument forth from its case when he
had thought the house to be nearly deserted; and a wail of sounds had
been heard, very low, very short-lived, recurring now and again at
fitful intervals. He had at those times attempted to play, as though
with a muffled bow,--so that none should know of his vanity and
folly. Then there had been further consultations at the deanery, and
it had been again agreed that it would be best to say nothing to him
of his music.

In these latter days of which I am now speaking he would never draw
the instrument out of its case. Indeed he was aware that it was too
heavy for him to handle without assistance. But he would open the
prison door, and gaze upon the thing that he loved, and he would
pass his fingers among the broad strings, and ever and anon he would
produce from one of them a low, melancholy, almost unearthly sound.
And then he would pause, never daring to produce two such notes in
succession,--one close upon the other. And these last sad moans of
the old fiddle were now known through the household. They were the
ghosts of the melody of days long past. He imagined that his visits
to the box were unsuspected,--that none knew of the folly of his old
fingers which could not keep themselves from touching the wires; but
the voice of the violoncello had been recognised by the servants
and by his daughter, and when that low wail was heard through the
house,--like the last dying note of a dirge,--they would all know
that Mr. Harding was visiting his ancient friend.

When the dean and Mrs. Arabin had first talked of going abroad for a
long visit, it had been understood that Mr. Harding should pass the
period of their absence with his other daughter at Plumstead; but
when the time came he begged of Mrs. Arabin to be allowed to remain in
his old rooms. "Of course I shall go backwards and forwards," he had
said. "There is nothing I like so much as a change now and then." The
result had been that he had gone once to Plumstead during the dean's
absence. When he had thus remonstrated, begging go be allowed to
remain in Barchester, Mrs. Arabin had declared