“He may be all these things and still be objectionable to me,” said Lois shortly, and to her surprise the ungainly Lizzy put her arm around her with an affectionate hug and laughed. “I won’t quarrel with you the last few nights you are here. And another thing, Lois; I’m not going to take another mate. Your room will be waiting for you when you get tired of the aristocracy.” One big room in the suite had been divided by a wooden partition. There was a doorless opening that communicated between the two cubicles, over which a curtain was hung. And after Lois had made a parcel of the confectionery and had addressed it to her “admirer,” she carried the package into her bedroom and put it on her dressing-table. She must not forget to return that gift, even though she could ill afford the postage. They chatted across the partition (which did not reach to the ceiling) for some time, and presently Lois slipped into her bed feeling unutterably tired. “Good-night,” she called. “Hark at old Mac!” From below stole the sad wail of old Mackenzie’s fiddle. Softly it rose and fell, and to one of the audience at least the sound was infinitely sweet and soothing. “He used to be an orchestra leader--what’s the word? Conductor,” said Lizzy. “I wish he’d keep his moonlight sonatas until I was out of the house.” “I like it,” said Lois. In truth the sad melody attuned to her own troubled heart. “It gives me the hump,” grunted Lizzy, as she jerked off her stockings and examined her toes critically. “After you’ve gone I’m going to ask him to give up his midnight folly.” “He has very little amusement,” protested Lois. “Why doesn’t he go out and get it? The old niggard never leaves the house. He’s got plenty of money. He owns this property.” Lois was listening. The old man was playing the Intermezzo from _Cavalleria Rusticana_, and, hackneyed as the melody was, it sounded to the girl as though it expressed all the sorrows, all the fears, all the inarticulate protests of her own soul. “Music’s all right in its place,” said Lizzy, “if it’s the right kind. What’s the matter with ‘Maggie! Yes, Ma?’ I bought a copy of it cheap a week ago and gave it to him and he’s not played it once!” Presently there was silence on the other side of the partition. The music had ceased. Lois, turning over, fell into a troubled sleep. She dreamt she was in Telsbury Prison; it was she, among the colourless women, who was walking that dreary circle. Somebody stood watching her where she had stood by the doctor’s side; a great, fleshy-nosed woman whose hard black eyes smiled sneeringly as she passed. In the centre of the circle was the little old man, Mackenzie, his fiddle cuddled under his chin, and he was playing a vulgar tune she had heard Lizzy whistle. Suddenly she woke with a start.