What a fine programme! Quartett, Beethoven in E minor, Op. 59. Ah, what a beauty that was, with the glorious Adagio that no one could play like Joachim. Ballade in F, Chopin: he glanced at his piano and smiled. Who had ever written for the piano as an instrument like Chopin? Songs by Schubert, divinest of song writers, and--last and best, the Clarinet Quintett of Brahms. That would be a feast. His eyes shone as he went to his pile of music and fished out a little well-worn volume of Beethoven's Quartetts and a book of Schubert's songs. Then he went back to his chair to enjoy himself for the afternoon, quite oblivious of the fact that he had had no dinner. But the strain of the morning had been too great, combined with the want of proper food: the sight and mental sound of the music soothed him, though he could not long respond to its stimulus. Little by little his head drooped, and he sank into a gentle sleep. When he woke it was dusk and he bethought himself of some tea. The old music spell was still on him, but he remembered with a shiver the events of the morning. He realised that he must see how much money he really possessed, and calculate how long it would last; but he made up his mind, should it be much or little, one shilling of it must be saved for that concert. He found he had ten shillings and a few coppers, five shillings being due to his landlady for rent and sundries, and with the rest he would have to live till Monday. He remembered that he should see Herbert Maxwell then or on Tuesday, and he might be able to help him to something. On the Monday he was at St. James's Hall at seven o'clock, but it took him much longer than usual to climb the gallery stairs. He had to stop to get his breath several times on the way up, and when he reached his seat he could only sink down into it, close his eyes and remain in a state of half stupor till the music began. He had not even the energy to look round for Herbert, who, however, did not come. The first notes of the Quartett roused him to his general state of keen, nervous, interest; indeed it seemed to him that his musical perceptions were more sensitive than usual, and he felt as if he were some fine instrument that was being played on, that throbbed and vibrated in response to every chord sounded by the players on the platform. The performance of the Brahms Quintett was a magnificent one, led by that great German clarinet player Mühlfeld, who comes to England too seldom; and at its close the players received an ovation in which the Professor joined with all his old fire and energy: he felt quite strong and himself again.