“Yes, Mr. Gaspard,” said Julie, “we shall treat you like one of the family and leave you to yourself. My father must have his sleep, and for me there are my household duties waiting.” “And I will not disturb you if I play?” said Paul to the old gentleman. “Not at all. I shall the more easily fall into sleep.” And so there followed for Paul an hour of perfect bliss. The piano was a magnificent Broadwood, of exquisite tone and in perfect tune. And to Paul, who had not touched a piano worthy of the name for more than six years, this opportunity was as cold water to a thirsty soul. Ever and anon Julie flitted in and out of the room, intent upon her duties, now throwing in a word of appreciation and again suggesting one of her favourite bits for Paul’s playing. When her work was finished she came into the room and, drawing Paul away from his piano, by the charm of her conversation led him far afield into regions hitherto unknown to him. She talked of books whose titles he had never known, she talked of great pictures by masters of whom he had never heard; but when she talked of nature and its secrets, of the mountains and rivers, she found in Paul a kindred soul, alive to the beauty and glory of the great outside world. She had never seen the Windermere, and she led Paul to picture for her the scenes that lay about his childhood’s home and to tell her of his father’s work in spreading them on canvas. “And your father’s pictures?” she inquired. “Where are they?” “Many of them,” he said, “I have left at Pine Croft—our home, you know, in Windermere. But a number of them I have brought with me. I should like to show them to you.” “Oh, do,” she cried. “Will you bring them to me? I should like to see them.” It was late afternoon when her father appeared, ready for music and for more music. But with delicate tact she made Paul feel that it was her desire that the old gentleman should not be unduly excited but that he should save his full strength for his evening service. Thereupon Paul took his leave, promising himself the pleasure of hearing the old musician once more at the church that evening. “And afterwards come home with us.” To this Paul eagerly agreed. The boarding house which late on Saturday night, upon his arrival in the strange city, Paul had stumbled upon had but one redeeming feature, it was cheap. The rooms were ill kept, the table service was dirty, the boarders were noisy and ill-mannered, and the keeper of the house was overworked and consequently unsympathetic to the wants of her guests. As Paul was passing up the dark and filthy staircase to his room a young man came lounging out of his bedroom and stumbled down, the stairs, lurching heavily against Paul. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t see you.” “All right,” said Paul. “It is dark, isn’t it?” Something in his voice arrested the young fellow. “You are a new boarder here?” he said. “Yes. I came last night. My name is Gaspard.”