Ignorant of the fact that chance of a spiritual messenger was guiding him aright, Dr. Spenlove plodded through the streets. He had no clew, and received none from the half dozen persons or so he encountered as he walked toward the sea. He was scarcely fit for the task he had undertaken, but so intent was he upon his merciful mission that he bestowed no thought upon himself. The nipping air aggravating the cough from which he was suffering, he kept his mouth closed as a protection, and peered anxiously before him for some signs of the woman he was pursuing. A man walked briskly and cheerily toward him, puffing at a large and fragrant cigar, and stamping his feet sturdily into the snow. This man wore a demonstratively furred overcoat; his hands were gloved in fur; his boots were thick and substantial; and in the independent assertion that he was at peace with the world, and on exceedingly good terms with himself, he hummed the words, in Italian, of the jewel song in "Faust" every time he removed the cigar from his lips. Although it was but a humming reminiscence of the famous and beautiful number, his faint rendering of it was absolutely faultless, and proved him to be a man of refined musicianly taste, quite out of keeping with his demonstratively furred overcoat. Music, however, was not his profession. The instincts of his race had welded the divine art into his soul, and the instincts of his race had made him--a pawnbroker. Singular conjunction of qualities--the music of the celestial spheres and fourpence in the pound a month! A vulgar occupation, that of a pawnbroker, which high-toned gentlemen and mortals of aristocratic birth regard with scorn and contempt. But the last vulgar and debasing music-hall ditty which was caroled with delight by the majority of these gilded beings of a higher social grade never found lodgment in the soul of Mr. Moss, which, despite that he devoted his business hours to the lending of insignificant sums of money upon any small articles which were submitted to his judgment across the dark counter of his pawnbroking establishment, was attuned to a far loftier height than theirs in the divine realms of song. Puff, puff, puff at his cigar, the curling wreaths from which were whirled into threads of fantastic confusion by the gusts of wind, or hung in faint gray curls of beauty during a lull. The starry gleam was transferred from the lips to the fur-covered hand: "E' strano poter il viso suo veder; Ah! mi posso guardar mi pospo rimirar. Di, sei tu? Margherita! Di, sei tu? Dimmi su! Dimmi su, dì su, dì su, dì su presto!" From hand to lips the starry gleam, and the soul of Mr. Moss followed the air as he puffed his weed. The pawnbroker broke into ecstasy. From lips to hand again the starry light, and his voice grew rapturous: "Ceil! E come una man Che sul baccio mi posa! Ah! Io rido in poter Me stessa qui veder!"