nt to back up an indignant protest, that you were five minutes
early.

One evening was particularly memorable, it was in Petri's garden,
then, that we had met as usual. P. was in a pensive and sentimental
mood, usually caused by the magnificent sunsets. From our table we
commanded a splendid view of those crimson-tinted peaks in the far
distance, and the mysterious purple gloom which, like a rich robe,
covered the intervening hills. By some strange coincidence the subject
of music came up, and P. bitterly lamented the absence of that gentle
muse from such grand surroundings. I don't believe there is a piano in
the country except at the girls' school at Cetinje. The Scotchman had
suggested the gusla as a substitute, and had been met with derisive
laughter, for he had made the suggestion in all good faith. He was one
of the most unmusical men I have ever met. The professor had followed
this up with a learned discourse on the gusla, and the lesson to be
learnt from it in the origin and development of modern music, when
suddenly the sounds of a violin, being tuned in the room behind us,
arrested his flow of speech. In another few moments the unseen
musician began to play, and a deep silence fell upon us, for he was
playing our music and recalling memories of bygone days. Snatches from
Italian opera, and old well-known songs followed each other as we sat
in the twilight and listened, conjuring up pictures of opera-house and
concert-hall in this far-away land. Then the music ceased, and the
tinkling of coins on a plate proclaimed the status of our serenader.
In a few minutes a ragged, fair-haired boy stood before us, wearily
holding a plate in his hand. As we dived into our pockets the doctor
asked him in Serb, who he was and whence he came. He gazed blankly in
answer, and P. said to me, "He looks quite English." A joyful smile
lit up his tired face as he answered--

"I am English, sir. I will fetch father; he will be so pleased."

His father came out, a battered violin under his arm, and we were all
struck with his miserable half-starved and ragged appearance. He
played to us, he did not even play well, poor fellow, but still we
listened appreciatively, and then some of us took him home, fed him,
and we all contributed to his wardrobe. We were all of different sizes
and build, and the result was sadly comical. Before he left us he told
his story. It was not new or even interesting, but intensely pathetic;
one of a large f