t that
he was certainly growing thinner.

Your birth, my dear Edward, followed very shortly. Your poor mother
rallied in an unusually short time, and was filled with rapture at the
new treasure which was thus given as a solace to her afflictions. Your
father exhibited little interest at the event, though he sat nearly half
an hour with her one evening, and allowed her even to stroke his hair
and caress him as in time long past. Although it was now the height of
summer he seldom left the house, sitting much and sleeping in his own
room, where he had a field-bed provided for him, and continually
devoting himself to the violin.

One evening near the end of July we were sitting after dinner in the
drawing-room at Royston, having the French windows looking on to the
lawn open, as the air was still oppressively warm. Though things were
proceeding as indifferently as before, we were perhaps less cast down
than usual, for John had taken his dinner with us that evening. This was
a circumstance now, alas! sufficiently uncommon, for he had nearly all
his meals served for him in his own rooms. Constance, who was once more
downstairs, sat playing at the pianoforte, performing chiefly melodies
by Scarlatti or Bach, of which old-fashioned music she knew her husband
to be most fond. A later fashion, as you know, has revived the
cultivation of these composers, but at the time of which I write their
works were much less commonly known. Though she was more than a passable
musician, he would not allow her to accompany him; indeed he never now
performed at all on the violin before us, reserving his practice
entirely for his own chamber. There was a pause in the music while
coffee was served. My brother had been sitting in an easy-chair apart
reading some classical work during his wife's performance, and taking
little notice of us. But after a while he put down his book and said,
"Constance, if you will accompany me, I will get my violin and play a
little while." I cannot say how much his words astonished us. It was
so simple a matter for him to say, and yet it filled us all with an
unspeakable joy. We concealed our emotion till he had left the room to
get his instrument, then Constance showed how deeply she was gratified
by kissing first her mother and then me, squeezing my hand but saying
nothing. In a minute he returned, bringing his violin and a music-book.
By the soiled vellum cover and the shape I perceived instantly that it
was the