Mr. Bradley was offended. “Yes,” he snapped. “Of course a real ghost. There aren’t any others――except when _you_ come stealing in. I was playing an air I had taught him. I don’t know what put it into my mind, but at any rate I began to play it――an old Italian thing――a Spring Song. And in the middle of it I heard him. Perhaps I’m wrong in that: perhaps I didn’t hear him: but in any case something made me look round and――there he was, standing behind me, just where you are now. He only stayed while you could count twenty: then he was gone.... That’s why I lit these candles this afternoon. I thought it might get dark while I was playing, and I didn’t want to be caught napping. But we won’t talk about him. Now you _are_ here, tell me if you have a voice? Have you ever tried to sing? I haven’t heard a voice for months.... Cats, peacocks, corncrakes――that’s what I’ve got to make a choir of――a farmyard. A man like me――ridiculous――wasted in a God-forsaken hole like this....” His words sank into a mutter and Grif could no longer distinguish what he was saying. There was a silence while Mr. Bradley wagged his head. Then he looked up. “Well!” he went on querulously. “I’m waiting to try your voice. Sing the scale as I play it.” Grif would not have dreamed of disobeying him, and he began at once to sing, following each note of the organ. When he had finished Mr. Bradley seemed to be in better humour. “Good boy! And you mean to tell me they never had you taught! Extraordinary! I expect they muddle your head with all kinds of nonsense――teach you everything except what you ought to learn. They do. You needn’t deny it. They always do――idiots! You must sing for me. There’s a solo in an old anthem of mine that I will teach you, and you’ll sing it in church one Sunday.... Mezzo――you mustn’t try to sing too high. All you need is a little training. I’ve heard more powerful voices, but none much sweeter.... Do you know this?” He played the first bars of Spohr’s _Rose Softly Blooming_. “Don’t you know it? Well, we’ll have our first lesson now. Sing something you _do_ know――anything――I just want to see if you have an ear. We’ll try a hymn――you must know lots of hymns. _A Few More Years Shall Roll?_ You must know _that_?” “Yes, I think so,” said Grif diffidently. “Well, sing it. It doesn’t matter about the words, if you don’t remember them. Any words will do――or none at all. I’m glad you’re not shy. There’s a boy in the village who has quite a fair soprano. Grocer’s boy. I offered to teach him, but the little idiot was frightened to open his mouth.” Thus encouraged, Grif decided not to be a little idiot also, and sang to the best of his ability. “That’s a good boy.” “Did I keep in tune?” he asked softly. “Perfectly. Now we’ll go back to Spohr.”