It was while thus aimlessly loitering about one evening that he followed a stream of people into Westminster Abbey. That was the beginning of a new life for the boy. He had always been fond of music, a street-organ afforded him untold delight. And he was never tired of humming over the tunes that were thus taught him, for having heard them once, Davie's ear was sufficiently good to enable him to retain them correctly in his memory. But this music in the Abbey was unlike anything that he had ever listened to before. The voices that, clear, and rich, and sweet, rose high at times above the low tones of the organ, and again were all but drowned in the crash and the thunder that vibrated through the grand old building till the very roof seemed to echo to the sounds, thrilled him with delight and awe. Davie had never dreamt there "could" be anything half so beautiful. After that, Davie, when driven by fear from home, betook himself to the Abbey; or if it were closed, he would walk about the streets till he found some other place of worship into which he could creep to hear the music. That was the chief attraction for Davie, though he often wondered what the preacher "was talking about." But if he tried to listen, he never understood. He knew, of course, in a vague childish way, that it was "all about God," and there his knowledge stopped. He had learnt so much at the school to which his mother, when she had a few pence to spare, would send him for a week or two. This, however, happened only at long intervals, and, to tell the truth, Davie was not sorry—to go with only half a dinner was a misfortune that did cause him grief, but to keep away from school was a matter of rejoicing. This irregular attendance was by no means conducive to rapid improvement, and consequently poor Davie was always drudging away in the lowest class. Again, he hated to be obliged to sit still; he was so singularly active and lithe, and so accustomed to run wild in the streets, that this forced inaction was irksome in the extreme. The singing was the one thing that made it endurable, of course he liked that, and then, home he would go to sing to the baby the song he had just learnt—that is, if his step-father were not in. For Davie, his mother said, was "wonderful handy with a baby," and, when nothing else would do it, his voice would soothe its wailing cries and hush it to slumber.