“I want to sing!” he cried. “That's all--to sing.” Janin was brighter in the morning. “You must have some exercises,” he told the boy. “I'll get new strings for the violin; it'll do to give you the pitch.” At the day's end they went again to the hilltop. French Janin tightened and tuned his instrument. “Now!” he measured, with poised bow. “Ah!” Both his voice and violin were tremulous, shrill; but they indicated the pitch of the desired note. “Ah!” the old man quavered, higher. “Ah!” Harry Baggs boomed in his tremendous round tone. They repeated the exercises until a slip of a new moon, like a wistful girl, sank and darkness hid the countryside. A palpitating chorus of frogs rose from the invisible streams. Somnolence again overtook Janin; the violin slipped into the fragrant grass by the fence, but his fingers still clutched the bow. Pity for the other stirred Baggs' heart. He wondered what had ruined him, brought him--a man who had played in an opera house--here. A bony elbow showed bare through a torn sleeve--the blind man had no shirt; the soles of his shoes gaped, smelling evilly. Yet once he had played in an orchestra; he was undoubtedly a musician. Life suddenly appeared grim, a sleepless menace awaiting the first opportune weakness by which to enter and destroy. It occurred to Harry Baggs for the first time that against such a hidden unsuspected blight his sheer strength would avail him little. He had stolen money; that in itself held danger to his future, his voice. He had paid for it; that score was clear, but he must guard against such stupidities in the years to come. He had now a conscious single purpose--to sing. A new sense of security took the place of his doubts. He stirred Janin from his collapsed sleep, directed him toward their hut. He returned eagerly in the evening to the vocal exercises. French Janin struggled to perform his part, but mostly Harry Baggs boomed out his Ahs! undirected. The other had been without his white powder for three days; his shredlike muscles twitched continually and at times he was unable to hold the violin. Finally: “Can you go in to the post-office and ask for a package for me at general delivery?” he asked Harry Baggs. “I'm expecting medicine.” “That medicine of yours is bad as Runnel's dope. I've a mind to let it stay.” The other rose, stood swaying with pinching fingers, tremulous lips. “I'm afraid I can't make it,” he whimpered. “Sit down,” Harry Baggs told him abruptly; “I'll go. Too late now to try pulling you up. Whatever it is, it's got you.” It was warm, almost hot. He walked slowly down the road toward the town. On the left was a smooth lawn, with great stately trees, a long gray stone house beyond. A privet hedge, broken by a drive, closed in the withdrawn orderly habitation. A young moon bathed the scene in a diffused silver light; low cultivated voices sounded from a porch.