Here high prophetic frenzy tailed off into unabashed mendicancy, and the interview dropped to a purely commercial level. My attention wandered. Not far away a ring of people had collected round some fresh object of interest. I could hear the sound of a woman’s voice singing, and the thrumming of a harp. I could even distinguish the air. A fresh number was just beginning. It was "Annie Laurie"--the most beautiful love-song, in my humble opinion, ever written. "Maxwellton’s braes are bonny, Where early falls the dew--" Then the voice quavered and ceased, and I found myself wondering what had happened. "And now, would the other handsome gentleman like to show his palm to Gipsy?" enquired an ingratiating croak at my side. Realising with difficulty that I was the individual referred to, I turned, to find that our aged friend, having satisfactorily arranged Dicky’s future, was now soliciting my patronage. "No, thanks," I replied. "Come and see what is going on over there, Freak." "Ah, but Gipsy will tell the gentleman _all_," promised the old lady. "He has a wicked eye," she added, alluringly but incorrectly. We escaped at last, at a price, and presently found ourselves upon the outskirts of the little crowd which I have already mentioned. "What is going on inside here?" enquired Dicky of his nearest neighbour. "Gel singin’ to the ’arp," replied the gentleman addressed. He supplemented this information by adding that the lady was no class, and had a nasty cough. He was right. As he spoke, the voice of the singer broke again, and we could hear the sound of a spasm of coughing. We elbowed our way into the crowd, which had grown with the easy facility of all race-course crowds into quite an assemblage; and presently found ourselves in the inmost ring of spectators. In the centre of the ring sat an old man on a camp-stool, cuddling a big battered harp to his shoulder. Beside him stood a tall tired-looking woman, very handsome in a tawdry fashion, of about thirty-five. She was dressed as a Pierrette. Her right hand rested upon the old man’s shoulder, her left was pressed hard against her chest. She was coughing violently, and her accompanist’s hands lay patiently idle in his lap until she should be ready to continue. On the grass beside the old man sat a hollow-eyed little boy, also in regulation Pierrot costume. I heard Dicky draw his breath sharply. Don Quixote was astir again. Presently the singer recovered, stood bravely erect, and prepared herself for another effort. The old man’s hands swept over the strings, and the harp emitted a gentle arpeggio. "Like dew on the gowans lying Is the fall of her fairy feet, And like winds in summer sighing Her voice is low and sweet. Her voice is low and sweet, And she’s all the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie--"