It was not until he got out of his omnibus that he realised his weakness. It was a bitter night, with a strong north-east wind blowing, bringing with it blinding showers of sleet and hail, though the moon shone brightly between the storms. A furious gust almost blew the frail old man off his feet as he alighted, and the icy air made him gasp painfully for breath, and pierced through his worn clothing to his bones as he crawled slowly to the door of No. 9. He dragged himself wearily up to his room; his body felt numbed and sluggish, but his brain was still vibrating with the music he had just heard. He threw his hat and stick on the bed and sank down into the little chair beside it: he must rest a little before undressing; no need to light the lamp, the moon would break through directly--she always shone into his room. Ah, that Brahms Quintett! What a heavenly thing it was. He could hear it still; how haunting the Adagio with its mournful, pleading melody, and then that wild fantasia for the clarinet--why--surely they are playing it in the room beneath. Yes, there can be no mistaking the tone of the clarinet, no one but Mühlfeld can play like that. Louder and louder grows the passionate strain, like some agonised cry, with the dull wailing of the muted strings beneath it. The sound fills the whole house--louder and still louder. * * * * * “Yes, sir, the Perfesser is at 'ome, sir, though I don't rightly know if 'e's got up yet,” said a plump, kindly-faced woman in answer to Herbert Maxwell's question the next morning. “My daughter took 'is milk up at nine o'clock and he wasn't movin' then. Will you walk up, sir? Top floor on the right 'and.” Herbert went gaily upstairs. He felt in exuberant spirits. Things had gone well with him beyond his wildest dreams. His career was pretty well assured. The great singing master had undertaken to make himself responsible for his Academy fees, to find him means of earning money during his years of study and to help him in every possible way. Professor Crowitzski's five pounds had not been needed, and Herbert had it with him to return to the old man. He knocked softly at the door without receiving any answer, so he knocked again a little louder, and yet again; but all was still. “He must sleep soundly,” thought Herbert, “or----” A sudden cold fear shot through him, and he opened the door and looked in. The Professor was dressed in his ordinary clothes and Inverness, and sitting on the low wooden chair at the head of his bed, which had not been slept in. His right arm was flung across the pillow, his head rested on his arm, his left hand lay on his knee. At the first glance Herbert thought he was asleep, but the stillness of the figure and the marble whiteness of the face filled him with an awful dread. He went swiftly across the room and gently touched his old friend's hand, only to find the dread was a reality: he was too late. [THE END.]