ls me stories about his young days, and all the gay people he used to
see. Hark! that is my harp; oh, Lisa, is it not heavenly?"

"I don't know," said poor, tired Lisa, half asleep, after her long day's
work of standing in a shop.

Phil's harp was a shallow box, across which he had fastened some violin
strings rather loosely; and Phil himself was an invalid boy who had
never known what it was to be strong and hardy, able to romp and run, or
leap and shout. He had neither father nor mother, but no one could have
loved him more or have been any gentler or more considerate than was
Lisa--poor, plain Lisa--who worked early and late to pay for Phil's
lodging in the top of the old house where they lived, and whose whole
earthly happiness consisted in making Phil happy and comfortable. It was
not always easy to do this, for Phil was a strange child; aside from the
pain that he suffered, he had odd fancies and strange likings, the
result of his illness and being so much alone. And Lisa could not always
understand him, for she lived among other people--rough, plain, careless
people, for whom she toiled, and who had no such thoughts as Phil had.

From the large closet that served as her bedroom Lisa often heard Phil
talking, talking, talking, now to this thing, now to that, as if it were
real and had a personality; sometimes his words were addressed to a
rose-bush she had brought him, or the pictures of an old volume she had
found on a stall of cheap books at a street corner, or the little
plaster cast that an image-seller had coaxed her to purchase. Then,
again, he would converse, with his knife and fork or plate, ask them
where they came from, how they were made, and of what material. No
answer coming, he would invent all sorts of answers, making them reply
in his own words.

Lisa was so used to these imaginary conversations that they did not seem
strange to her.

Phil had, too, a passion for music, and would listen intently to the
commonest strains of a hand-organ, and Lisa had given him a little toy
harmonica, from which he would draw long, sweet tones and chords with
much satisfaction.

Old Joe, who blackened boots for some of the lodgers, had heard the
child's attempts at music, and had brought his violin and played for
him. One day, happening to leave it for a while on the window-ledge,
Phil's quick ear had detected a low vibration from the instrument. This
circumstance, and something he had read about a wind harp, h