Well for him was it that at least at the hour of death he mounted a broad and sunny path, for thorny would have been his road in life. The wasted chest still heaved softly, and the child seemed still conscious of the echoes of the outer world that entered through the open window. It was evening; the peasant girls returning from hay-making passed by and sang as they went; the brook purled close at hand. Janko listened for the last time to the musical echoes of the village. Beside him, on the horsecloth, lay the fiddle he had made from a shingle. Suddenly the dying child's face lit up, and his white lips whispered-- "Mammy!" "What is it, dearie?" asked the mother, her voice stifled with sobs. "Mammy, God will give me a real fiddle in heaven." "Yes, darling, yes," replied the mother. She could speak no more, for from her heart the pent-up sorrow burst suddenly forth. She only murmured, "Jesus, my Jesus!" and laying her head on the table, wept as those weep from whom death robs their dearest treasure. And so it was. When she raised her head and looked at the child, the eyes of the little musician were open but fixed, the countenance was grave, solemn, and rigid. The sunbeam had disappeared. "May you rest in peace, little Janko!" * * * * * Next day the Baron and his family returned from Italy to the Castle. The daughter of the house and her suitor were there amongst the rest. "What a delightful country Italy is!" remarked the gentleman. "Yes, and the people! They are a nation of artists! It is a pleasure to note and encourage their talent," answered the young lady. * * * * * The larches rustled over Janko's grave! _A Silver Harvest._ [Illustration: SHOOTING SEINE-NET.]