on thinking so ever since. I don't know why, but--
Oh, yes, I do," cried the boy, screwing up his face with a look of
disgust: "it's because, as he says, I've no soul for music."

For just at that moment a peculiar long-drawn wailing sound came from
the open window of the west tower, and a dog lying curled up on the
grass in the sun sprang up and began to bark, finishing off with a long,
low howl, as it stretched out its neck towards the open window.

"Poor old Nibbs! he has no soul for it, either," said the boy to
himself, as his face lit up with a mirthful expression. "It woke him
up, and he thought it was cats. Wonder what tune that is? He won't
want me to interrupt him now. Better see, though, and speak to him
first, and then I'll go and see old Ben polish the armour."

CHAPTER THREE.

COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE.

The wail on one string went on, and naturally sounded louder as Roy
Royland opened a door to stand gazing in at the quaint octagonal room,
lit by windows splayed to admit more light to the snug quarters hung
with old tapestry, and made cosy with thick carpet and easy-chair, and
intellectual with dwarf book-cases filled with choice works. These had
overflowed upon the floor, others being piled upon the tops of chairs
and stacked in corners wherever room could be found, while some were
even ranged upon the narrow steps of the corkscrew stone staircase which
led to the floor above, occupied by Master Palgrave Pawson for a
bedchamber, the staircase being continued up to the leads, where it
ended in a tiny turret.

"I wonder what father will say, my fine fellow, when he finds what a lot
of his books you've brought up out of the library," said Roy to himself,
as he stood watching the plump, smooth-faced youngish man, who, with an
oblong music-book open before him on the table, was seated upon a stool,
with a 'cello between his legs, gravely sawing away at the strings, and
frowning severely whenever, through bad stopping with his fingers--and
that was pretty often--he produced notes "out of tune and harsh." The
musician was dressed, according to the fashion of the day, in dark
velvet with a lace collar, and wore his hair long, so that it
inconvenienced him; the oily curls, hanging down on either side of his
fat face like the valance over an old-fashioned four-post bedstead,
swaying to and fro with the motion of the man's body, and needing, from
time to time, a vigorous shake to forc