r.

Mrs. Arkwright's house was filled with well-paying lodgers, but as all
had their separate rooms, while the landlady's family occupied the
basement, there was not much common intercourse between the paying
guests--for it should have been noted that Henry had now passed into a
locality where the word "lodger" was taboo, and the evasive euphemism
"paying guest" took its place.

At first Henry was too much interested in himself and his regal "we" to
concern himself greatly about the other lodgers, and in any case his
regular absence at the office every night would almost have served for a
"Box and Cox" arrangement. But sometimes, as he had been about to leave
in the evening for his editorial duties, he had heard the delicious
strains of a 'cello superbly played in the room above him, and although
no judge of music, he felt that the unseen player must be a person of
some character, for the wailing note of the music bore with it a strong
individual touch. It seemed to him that this fingering of the minor
chords bespoke a performer whose personality was as distinctly expressed
in music as an author's soul is bared in his written words.

The unknown musician piqued his curiosity. Who was the occupant of the
room overhead, whose soul gave forth that mournful note? There was
something, too, in the music very soothing to him. One night he
lingered, listening to the player, following the plaintive cadence of
the piece till the music trailed away into silence, when he noticed with
a start that it was half an hour behind the time he was usually to be
found at his desk. He fancied after this evening that there was
something in the room overhead he would have to reckon with.

The identity of the unknown player could easily have been settled by
consulting Mrs. Arkwright, but that lady was almost as mournful as the
music, and strangly reserved, so Henry refrained for a time from
mentioning the subject to her. Besides, there was a pleasant element of
mystery in the thing, which appealed to his imagination. But at last
curiosity came uppermost, and while she was laying his supper about
eight o'clock one evening--the last meal of the day before setting out
for his nightly task--he asked the landlady who occupied the room above.

"Well now, Mr. Charles," she answered, almost brightly, as though struck
with some coincidence, "it is strange you should speak of him, for only
this very day he was speaking to me of you."

"Indeed! Then