sician of great genius.
This--Stretton--is Mr. John Holt, a dramatist of great power. Gentlemen,
know each other. Mr. Holt writes charming songs. Mr. Stretton writes
beautiful music.'

He flourished with mock gravity as he said these things, turning
first to one and then to the other. Mr. John Holt's eyes were keen and
observant; and one swift glance took in the knowledge of the composer's
hungry pallor, his threadbare dress, the bare and poverty-stricken
aspect of the room.

'I have two songs for a new play of mine,' he said; 'I want them set to
music.'

Christopher's hand, thinner and more transparent than a healthy man's
hand should be, reached out for the offered manuscript.

'When do you think you can let me have the music?' asked the dramatist.

Christopher read the songs through, and looked up.

'To-morrow?' he said.

'So soon!' said the other. 'At what time to-morrow?'

'Will midday suit you?'

'Can you bring them to that address?' 'I will be there,' responded
Christopher.

His visitors left him and he sat down to think. He was weak, and the
pains of hunger gnawed him, but as he sat over one of the songs the
words built themselves into a tune almost without his knowledge or
effort. Then he turned to write, and found that he had no music-paper.
He laughed bitterly at this discovery, and looking round the bare
apartment sighted his violin-case, and rising, took the violin and bow
out of it, put on his hat, and, with the case under his arm, made for
the pawnbroker's. There he realised half-a-crown, one halfpenny of which
was confiscated in payment for the pawn-ticket. He bought paper and pen
and ink, and having taken them home, went out again and ate cold sausage
at the bar of a public-house, and came back with a few pence still in
his pockets. There was a nausea upon him, and he could not recall the
air he wished to write. He had eaten nothing for three days and he felt
at once sick and drowsy.

He was fain to lie down, and he fell asleep, to awake in two hours' time
a little strengthened and refreshed. The tune came back again, and he
set it down, and then attacked the second one with like success.

Morning came, and after a meagre breakfast which finished his resources,
he went weakly to the address the dramatist had given him. Mr. Holt had
left behind him apologies for unavoidable absence. Would Mr. Stretton
call again at three? He wandered desolately home, and; waited, and when
the time drew ne