“The thing of it is, we’ve fed half of South Micklegard without charging a cent,” she concluded, “so, of course, we’ve lost by it considerable already, and the question is, how much longer we can keep the thing up.” “You can’t let people starve,” said Miss Sally, looking round from her music. “But now that the city is issuing rations”— “Confound the city!” said Karl Metzerott. “Still, we can’t let our shareholders suffer; most of them have lost enough as it is. It might be best for me to see the mayor about that; and then, if we could call a general meeting of shareholders”— But what this meeting was to have accomplished will never be known; for at this moment the shrill, wheezy strains of the music-box were taken up so softly and tenderly that it seemed an angel’s whisper rather than a mere mortal violin. “Home, home, sweet, sweet home! Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!” sang the violin, with soft exultation; while those within the room looked around amused, yet scarcely surprised, for violins were as plenty as blackberries in that community. But, when the measure became brisker, and the strain vividly exhortatory of a certain “Polly” to “put the kettle on,” in order that the company might “all take tea,” there was a sudden look of surprise, and—something else—on her namesake’s countenance, while Karl Metzerott roared in such stentorian tones that it was quite a mercy he didn’t wake the baby,— “Franz Schaefer, _bei Donder_! Come in, you villain!” So Franz—but was it indeed Franz who “came fiddling into the room”? twisting and turning about the jingling air with that magical bow of his, and tangling it so inextricably with Howard Payne’s immortal melody that it was easy to see how, to him, no place would be home where Polly did _not_ put the kettle on! If it were Franz, he had learned a language wherein his tongue was neither dull nor slow; but there was the same honest smile upon the face of the man of thirty that had once illuminated the countenance of the boy; and when he threw down his violin—or no! I misrepresent—even at that supreme moment, he laid it down as tenderly as a new-born baby—and then caught Polly in his arms and deliberately kissed her, she felt that it was still the boy’s true heart that beat against her own. “Hurrah for the fellow who has learned to take his own part!” cried the Emperor; while Franz, without an idea of being witty, answered seriously, “In an orchestra, Mr. Metzerott, that is a very necessary thing!”