hease that, my dear," said
her lover.

"Please, _did_ you bring your fiddle, Mr. Watlin?" pleaded Angel, "won't
you play now?"

"Ah, I lof da fiddle!" said Tony, caressing Anita's little head.

Mr. Watlin, thus importuned, disappeared for a space into the back hall,
whence he finally emerged in his shirt sleeves, carrying the violin under
his arm. We drew our chairs together at one end of the room, and watched
him as he tuned the instrument, frowning sternly the while.

"Lydies and gentleman," said he, "I 'ope you'll pardon me appearing before
you in my waistcoat. I must not be 'ampered you see, wen I manipulate the
bow. I must 'ave freedom. It's a grand thing freedom! Ah!"

"He's gone as far as he can go on the fiddle," explained Mary Ellen to the
company. "Someday he'll give up the butchering business and take to music
thorough."

Mr. Watlin now, with the violin tucked under his chin, began to play in a
very spirited manner. Our pulses beat time to lively polka and schottische
while Mr. Watlin tapped on the carpet with his large foot as he played.
Mary Ellen was wild for a dance, she said.

"Get up and 'ave a gow, then," encouraged Mr. Watlin, "you and 'Arry
there!" But she, for some reason, would not, and Harry was not urgent.

"I can play da fiddle a little," said Tony, as our artist paused for a
rest.

Mr. Watlin clapped him good-humouredly on the shoulder. "Go to it then, my
boy, give us your little tune! I'm out of form tonight, anyw'y." He pushed
the violin patronizingly into Tony's brown hands.

The Italian took it, oh, so lovingly, and, with an apologetic glance at Mr.
Watlin, he tuned the strings to a different pitch. Anita climbed to the
back of his neck.

Then came music, flooding, trickling, laughing, from the bow of Tony! Italy
you could see; and little, half-naked children, playing in the sleepy
street! You could hear the tinkle of donkey bells, and the cooing of
pigeons; you could see Tony's home as he was seeing it, and hear his
sisters singing. It was Spring in Tuscany.

The theme grew sad. It sang of loneliness. A lost child was wandering
through the forest, who could not find his mother. It was very dark beneath
the fir trees, and the wind made the boy shiver. His cry of--Mother!
Mother! echoed in my heart and would not be hushed. I hid my face in the
hollow of my arm and sobbed bitterly.

The music ceased. Harry had me in his arms.

"What's wrong, old fellow, was it something in To