ly defiled, he replied curtly--

"First, I am not going to play any more to-night; next, I will see you
in Jehanum[1] before I allow you to play; and thirdly, I won't sell my
flute."

[1] The abode of lost spirits.

With these words, he stepped back into the garden and slammed the gate
in Mr. Figgins' face.

"I shall never get over this," Figgins murmured to himself, gloomily;
"that flute would have cheered my solitary hours, and that ruthless
Turk refuses to part with it. Now, indeed, I feel my peace of mind is
gone forever."

His grief at this juncture became so overpowering, that he leant
against the door, and in his despair hammered it with his head.

Suddenly the door burst open, and the distressed orphan, in all his
brilliant array, shot backwards into some shrubs of a prickly nature,
whose sharp thorns added to his agonizing sensations.

"Will anybody be kind enough to put an end to my misery?" he wailed, as
he lay on his back, feeling as though he had been transformed into a
human pincushion.

He was not a little surprised to hear a familiar voice exclaim--

"Lor' bless me! dat you, Massa Figgins?"

Glancing up, he espied the black face of Bogey looking down upon him.

"Yes, it's me," he answered, in a wailing tone; "help me up."

"Gib me you fist," cried Bogey.

Mr. Figgins extended his hand, and the negro grasping it, by a vigorous
jerk hoisted the prostrate grocer out of his thorny bed, tingling all
over as though he had been stung by nettles.

Bogey was quite astounded at the transformation of his dress.

"Why, Massa Figgins, what out-and-out guy you look!" he exclaimed;
"whar all you hair gone to?"

The orphan only groaned.

He was thinking of another h-air (without the h), the air he had heard
on the Turkish flute.

Just at that moment the too-too-too of the instrument sounded again.

Figgins stood like one absorbed.

All his agonizing pains were at once forgotten.

"How sweet, how plaintive!" he murmured to himself; "too-too-too,
tooty-tooty-too!" he hummed, in imitation of the sound.

Bogey heard it also, and involuntarily put his hands on big stomach and
made a comically wry face.

"Whar dat orful squeakin' row?" he asked.

"Hush, hush!" exclaimed the orphan, holding up his hands reprovingly,
and turning up his eyes at the same time; "it's heavenly music; it's a
flute, my boyhood's favourite instrument."

"Gorra!" muttered Bogey; "it 'nuff to gib a fellar de mulling