fanity at
times, Nick Goodall would have made fame and fortune.

He stared at the thinning crowd as if he had begun dimly to comprehend
the havoc he had wrought. Then he put on his hat, came down off the
platform, and shuffled out of the open door, his violin in one hand, its
box in the other. There were not more than a dozen of us who followed
him into the little churchyard. The moon was rising, and the shadows
of lilac and rose bush, of slab and monument lay long across the green
mounds. Standing there between the graves of the dead he began to play.
I shall never forget that solemn calling of the silver string:

'Come ye disconsolate where'er ye languish.'

It was a new voice, a revelation, a light where darkness had been, to
Hope and to me. We stood listening far into the night, forgetful of
everything, even the swift flight of the hours.

Loud, impassioned chords rose into the moonlit sky and sank to a faint
whisper of melody, when we could hear the gossip of the birds in the
belfry and under the eaves; trembling tones of supplication, wailing
notes of longing and regret swept through the silent avenues of the
churchyard, thrilling us with their eloquence. For the first time we
heard the music of Handel, of Mendelssohn, of Paganini, and felt its
power, then knowing neither name nor theme. Hour by hour he played on
for the mere joy of it. When we shook hands with the elder and tiptoed
to the buggy he was still playing. We drove slowly and listened a long
way down the road. I could hear the strains of that ballad, then new to
me, but now familiar, growing fainter in the distance:

O ye'll tak' the high road an' I'll tak' the low road An' I'll be in
Scotland afore ye; But me an' me true love will never meet again On the
bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.

what connection it may have had with the history of poor Nick Goodall
[*1] I have often wondered.

[*1] Poor Nick Coodall died in the almshouse of Jefferson
County some thirty years ago. A better account of this
incident was widely printed at that time.

As the last note died into silence I turned to Hope, and she was crying.

'Why are you crying?' I asked, in as miserable a moment as I have ever
known.

'It's the music,' she said.

We both sat in silence, then, hearing only the creak of the buggy as
it sped over the sandy road. Well ahead of us I saw a man who suddenly
turned aside, vaulting over the fence and running into the near wood