tell me how you
came to purchase this fine 'cello; but you dropped off, with the tale
unfinished."

Ronnie looked in silence at his wife's cousin.

"Are you the better for your sleep?"

"I am fagged out," said Ronnie, wearily.

Aubrey went to a cupboard, poured something into a glass, and handed it
to Ronald.

"Drink this, my boy. It will soon wake you up."

Ronnie drank it. Its tint was golden, its odour, fragrant; but
otherwise, for aught he knew, it might have been pure water.

He sat up and took careful note of his surroundings.

Then an idea seemed to strike him. He leaned forward and twanged the
strings of his 'cello. They were not in tune.

"Will you lend me your tuning-fork?" he said to Aubrey.

But Aubrey had expected this.

"Sorry," he said. "I don't possess one, just now. I gave away mine last
week. You can tune your 'cello by the organ."

"I don't know how to tune a 'cello," said Ronnie.

"Let me show you," suggested Aubrey, with the utmost friendliness.

He walked over to the organ, drew out the 'cello stop, sounded a note,
then came back humming it.

Then he took up the Infant and carefully tuned the four strings, talking
easily meanwhile.

"You see? You screw up the pegs--so. The notes are A, D, G, C."

"What have you done to your lip?" said Ronald, suddenly.

"Knocked it on the stove just now, as I bent to stoke it with my
fingers, for fear of waking you. It bled amazingly."

Aubrey produced a much-stained handkerchief.

"It is curious how a tiny knock will sometimes draw as much blood as a
sword-thrust. There! The Infant is in perfect tune, so far as I can tell
without the bow. Do you mind if I just pass the bow across the strings?
After each string is perfectly tuned to a piano or organ, you must make
them vibrate together in order to get the fifths perfect. A violin or a
'cello is capable of a more complete condition of intuneness--if I may
coin a word--than an organ or a piano."

He took up the bow, then with careful precision sounded the strings,
singly and together. The beautiful open notes of the Infant of Prague,
filled the room.

"There," said Aubrey, putting it back against the empty chair. "I am
afraid that is all I must attempt. I only play the fiddle. I might
disappoint you in your Infant if I did more than sound the open
strings."

Ronald passed his hand over his forehead. "When did I fall asleep?" he
asked.

"Just after suggesting that we should not discuss