(Fa la la la),
Born he was a brewer's son
(Fa la la la),
He soon forsook the dray and sling,
And counted the brewhouse a petty thing
Unto the stately throne of a king
(Fa la la la).

"What did the great man himself say?" asked the Shadow, stepping up to
Ralph's side. "He said, 'I would rather have a plain, russet-coated
captain who knows what he fights for, and loves what he knows, than
what you call a gentleman.' And he was right, eh?"

"God knows," said Ralph, and turned aside.

He had stopped to look into the middle of a small crowd that had
gathered about the corner of the Bridge Lane. A blind fiddler sat on a
stool there and played sprightly airs. His hearers consisted chiefly
of men and boys. But among them was one young girl in bright ribbons,
who was clearly an outcast of the streets. Despite her gay costume,
she had a wistful look in her dark eyes, as of one who was on the
point of breaking into tears.

The dance tunes suddenly came to an end, and were followed by the long
and solemn sweeps of a simple old hymn such as had been known in many
an English home for many an age. Gradually the music rose and fell,
and then gently, and before any were aware, a sweet, low, girlish
voice took up the burden and sang the words. It was the girl of the
streets who sang. Was it the memory of some village home that these
chords had awakened? Was it the vision of her younger and purer days
that came back to her amid the gayeties of this night--of the hamlet,
the church, the choir, and of herself singing there?

The hymn melted the hearts of many that stood around, and tears now
stood in the singer's downcast eyes.

* * * * *

At that hour of that night, in the solitary homestead far north, among
the hills, what was Rotha's travail of soul?

* * * * *

Ralph dropped his head, and felt something surging in his throat.

At the same instant a thick-lipped man with cruel eyes crushed through
the people to where the girl stood, and, taking her roughly by the
shoulder, pushed her away.

"Hand thy gab," he said, between clinched teeth; "what's _thy_
business singing hymns in t'streets? Get along home to bed; that's
more in thy style, I reckon."

The girl was stealing away covered with shame, when Ralph parted the
people that divided him from the man, and, coming in front of him,
laid one hand on his throat. Gasping