"Good morning," said the doctor, cheerily. "Haven't been waiting long, have you? Now come with me, and I'll introduce you to the guitar." "Is it in here?" I asked, as we entered the warehouse. "It is up in a room high above the store. I hope you don't mind stairs. The fact is that Messrs. Harkaby are good people, and are kind enough to give a poor old piano-tuner a shelter for his head. He won't need it much longer; he is going fast. The other day he asked me if I knew any one who would care to have his guitar? I told him I would find somebody, and now I am keeping my word." He did not tell me that he himself was the best friend that the dying man possessed; but as I followed him up those long flights of stairs, I quickly guessed the truth. One might know Doctor Warstone for years without finding out one quarter of the good that he did every day. Often and often I have heard clergymen extolled to the skies for doing splendid things which a doctor does naturally and simply, never getting a word of praise. They are great men, these doctors who toil in our large towns—cheerful in the midst of sorrow, quick to help, prompt to save. And to this day, when any one talks about an ideal hero, the face of Doctor Warstone rises up in my memory, and I think of all the noble deeds, known and unknown, that this quiet worker has done. We got at length to the top of the last flight, and paused before a door on the landing. "I will go in first," the doctor said, "and prepare Monsieur Léon for your coming. You will not mind waiting here for a few moments while I speak to my patient?" [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. THE GUITAR. THERE was a window on the landing, commanding a fine view of roofs and chimney-pots, and I stood watching little white clouds sailing swiftly across the blue April sky. I could hear the doctor's deep voice in the sick room, and then a faint tone in reply. At length the door opened, and I was bidden to enter. The room was large, and looked lighter and more airy than London rooms generally do. There was a light paper on the walls, and some kind hand had pinned up several coloured engravings, which made the sick chamber look something like a nursery. The invalid was sitting in an easy chair stuffed with pillows, and placed near a bright fire. Resting against the arm of the chair, just within reach of the sick man's hand, was the guitar. The doctor quietly introduced us to each other; and Monsieur Léon's eyes, looking strangely brilliant in his worn face, seemed to flash me a glance of welcome. He was very ill; the pinched features and hollow cheeks told a pathetic tale of long suffering; but the smile, that came readily and brightly, was full of courage and sweetness. Evidently Monsieur Léon was not to be daunted by the approach of death.