"I will not weary you with a history of myself and my doings," he continued. "It is enough to say that the guitar has been with me through many years of sorrow and misfortune. When it has spoken to me, I have forgotten my troubles. Often I have sat alone in a dreary London room, and listened to the tinkle of mule-bells on the passes. Or I have seen the southern moon rise over the walls of the Alhambra, and heard the dark-eyed gipsies sing the songs of Spain. But sometimes my guitar has said things that I cannot understand. "Sometimes there are melodies of which I fail to find the meaning. It is strange." [Illustration: HIS THIN FINGERS BEGAN TO STRAY OVER THE STRINGS.] Was his mind wandering? There was a dreamy look in his face as he sank back on the pillows, and his thin fingers began to stray over the strings. I waited in silence. Mechanically he tuned the guitar, and played a few chords. Then came a strange, sweet tune that reminded me of fairy music floating down from distant hills. "The horns of Elfland faintly blowing—" Might have sounded just as soft and gay. There was nothing sad in the melody, but it left its hearer unsatisfied. What did it mean? What words were set to this enchanting air? One wanted to hear it again and yet again. The feeble hands soon came to a pause, and I saw that all the fire had died out of Monsieur Léon's eyes. It was time for me to go. I had long outstayed the "half-hour" to which nurse had limited my absence. Ronald would be anxiously looking for my return. "I am afraid you are exhausted," I said, rising. "Is there nothing I can do before I leave you?" He thanked me softly and shook his head. Then, with a gesture, he desired me to take up the guitar. But I touched it reluctantly. It must have been so hard for him to part with it. It seemed so cruel to take it away. "Are you really willing to let it go?" I asked, anxiously. He roused himself, and looked at me with a sudden smile. "The time has come," he said. "I cannot take it with me where I am going. Give it to your husband, madame, with the good wishes of a dying man. I send it away with a blessing." The words were almost solemnly uttered. When he had spoken, he sank back wearily and closed his eyes; and I saw that the short-lived strength, lent him by excitement, had ebbed away. There was nothing more for me to stay for, but my eyes were full of tears when I left the room. That last farewell was echoing in my ears as I carried the guitar carefully downstairs. In my old country home I had often heard it said that the blessing of the dying is a good gift. I was glad to recall those parting words, although they made me weep. And little did I then know how strangely significant they would seem to me in a time that was yet to come.