usic that
ravished his soul with a novel enchantment: Chopin, Liszt, Wagner,
Schumann--and he found that Schubert had written a few other songs
besides the famous "Serenade"!

One evening he was even asked if he could make music himself, and
actually volunteered to sing--and sang that famous ballad of Balfe's
which seems destined to become immortal in this country--"When other
lips" ... _alias_, "Then you'll remember me!"

Strange to say, it was absolutely new to this high musical circle,
but they went quite mad over it; and the beautiful melody got
naturalized from that moment in Belgium and beyond, and Barty was
proclaimed the primo tenore of Antwerp--although he was only a
barytone!

A fortnight after this Barty heard "When other lips" played by the
"Guides" band in the park at Brussels. Its first appearance out of
England--and all through him.

Then he belonged to the Antwerp "Cercle Artistique," where he made
many friends and was very popular, as I can well imagine.

Thus he was happier than he had ever been in his life; but for one
thing that plagued him now and again: his oft-recurring desire to be
conscious once more of the north, which he had not felt for four or
five years.

The want of this sensation at certain periods--especially at
night--would send a chill thrill of desolation through him like a
wave; a wild panic, a quick agony, as though the true meaning of
absolute loneliness were suddenly realized by a lightning flash of
insight, and it were to last for ever and ever.

This would pass away in a second or two, but left a haunting
recollection behind for many hours. And then all was again sunshine,
and the world was made of many friends--and solitude was impossible
evermore.

One memorable morning this happiness received a check and a great
horror befell him. It was towards the end of summer--just before the
vacation.

With a dozen others, he was painting the head of an old man from the
life, when he became quite suddenly conscious of something strange
in his sight. First he shut his left eye and saw with his right
quite perfectly; then he shut the right, and lo! whatever he looked
at with the left dwindled to a vanishing point and became invisible.
No rubbing or bathing of his eye would alter the terrible fact, and
he knew what great fear really means, for the first time.

Much kind concern was expressed, and Van Lerius told him to go at
once to a Monsieur Noiret, a professor at the Catho