I do not think that Drewe had any conception of what massive chorus singing could be, or what cultured voices could effect in solos. Remember, he never had heard good music in his own village; only direful failures to achieve something that was supposed to be music. His only—I really believe his only previous acquaintance with good singing was his hearing my mother sing. As to describing how Doble looked through that concert, I cannot. He was as one not himself, rigid, rapt, not of this earth, with the great tears rolling down his thin, worn cheeks; he sat with his hands folded between his knees and never moved—no more than had he been of stone. Nor did Doble speak much after it; he went back to his lodging as in a dream. And as we returned by coach next day he was reticent. I knew what was passing within the man, and did not tease him with questions, but as he left the coach at his door, he squeezed my hand and said: “Sir, I shall live on _that_ all the rest of my days.” In after years I have often pondered over Doble. It has seemed to me one of those unfathomable mysteries of life that there should be in a poor little country village a man created by God, endowed by God with high-strung musical faculties, yet absolutely incapacitated by position and circumstances for making any use of his great gift, for deriving any enjoyment from it. Why was not Doble placed somewhere else? Why was Doble given a faculty he could not use? Many years passed, and I was cast into a far distant portion of England, yet I may say that this problem continually troubled me. Once I came across a farmer’s wife in a low and peculiarly ugly portion of the East coast of England, and she had the same sort of craving soul after beautiful scenery. “I feel,” she said to me once, “as though I would like to look on the Alps—and die.” It is the same throughout the world of men. It must have been so through countless ages. There must have been Mozarts and Purcells in the ages that were before musical instruments were made, and the laws of harmony laid down and concerted music was made possible. Hundreds and thousands of Doble Drewes over all the earth and in all time. A mystery! A perplexing problem I could not solve. It haunted me. It distressed me. A few years ago I was at my old home, and I was talking to the curate of the parish in which Doble Drewe had lived. “So,” said I, “poor old Drewe is dead.” “Yes, and buried.” “I wish——” “You were not in this neighbourhood then?” “No. Tell me something about the old fellow.” “I really do not think I have anything to tell.” “Was his wife a little less nagging as he grew older and faded away?” He shook his head. “Tongues grow sharper the more they are used.” “And—at the last? Had he much pain?”