“The instrument has to be tuned,” Wiggie answered, rather sadly. “It is out of wrung strings that both God and man make their sweetest music.” “Still jabbering about your stupid singing!” Harriet scoffed, thrusting a plate of scones into his face. “Try these. They’re buttered with Wild Duck. I told the examiner it was the stuff from the Van, and he cleared out like a shot, and hasn’t been seen since. By the way, the L.G. knows what you call your Quetta-Song perfectly now. He was singing it all morning.” “It’s a song I used to sing,” Wiggie explained, for Lanty’s benefit, “a song about lambkins and resting-places and things. We call it the Quetta-Song because the Quettas never have a resting-place. They are always on the move.” “I know a song like that,” Lanty said slowly, out of far depths when Harriet had turned away, and nobody but Wiggie could hear. “_I_ call it my Home-Song. I heard it years ago at the Westmorland Festival.” “You heard _me_,” Wiggie said simply. “I remember singing it there. It is known as the Quetta-Song in the profession, so the others do not sing it. It was when I first came out and was plump and pretty, with my voice not quite full grown, so of course you wouldn’t remember me. But I thank you ever so much for remembering the song.” “I always remembered it, but I lost faith in it,” Lanty said. “I could find no home to match the song.” “But you will find it soon!” Wiggie answered with a quick look, and saw where the other’s eyes turned. “I have found mine,” he added. He stood up as Harriet came back. “Harriet--when may I come home again?” “Home?” Harriet stared. “Home to Wild Duck--for good!” They gazed at each other over the plate of scones, and then, still clasping it, the Rur’l D’trict C’cillor fled from the room. The Great Quetta (who was only Wiggie) followed. “Seen Brack lately?” Hamer inquired in a low tone, dropping into the vacant chair. Lanty nodded. “Yes, I’ve come across him a good deal. He often looks in to see me, too. But he’s leaving--did you know?--giving up Thweng in the spring, and going out to Canada again, to join Lup. They say he wants to take Braithwaite’s youngest girl with him. He’s money, you know, so he can afford to play about between the Continents. I’ll be sorry to lose him--yes, it’s come to that, though I’d never have believed it! There’s nothing he won’t do for me, nowadays. Oh, he’s the old Brack again, of course!--all the stage-effects piled on as thick as ever--but the old Brack with a difference. He still goes to church, by the way.” “New life for everybody,” Hamer mused. “There’s not much doubt where Cyril will end, is there? You’ll be putting out your hand, too, my boy!” Lanty looked at him with a question in his eyes. “Put it out soon!” said Hamer. Bluecaster left, shortly afterwards, and the agent walked part of the way with him.