"He plays for hours and hours and hours," said the old lady. "Your dear father has just given him a beautiful new piano. He's been such a friend to Harold. Wonderful the interest he's taken in him." She opened the door of a small sitting room, whence the music came, but the player wholly absorbed did not hear them enter. "Harold, who do you think has come to see you!" As the piano stopped and the musician swung round slowly on his stool, Sally shivered at the pallor of the face and the closed eyes. She saw that tears were trickling from them. "Miss Munt has come to see you." There was excitement in the voice of the old lady. "You remember Miss Sally of Waterloo Villa. And to think what we've been reading about her in the _Tribune_!" The musician sprang up with a boy's impulsiveness. "You don't say, Mother--you don't say!" The eager voice had a music of its own. "Where are you, Miss Sally?" He held out his hand. "Put your hand there and then I shall believe it." Sally did as she was asked. "Well, well, it's really the great and famous you." He seemed to caress that strong and competent paw with his delicate fingers. She couldn't find the courage to say anything. But he did not allow the silence to become awkward. "Better go and look after your coupons, Mother, while Miss Sally and I talk shop." Upon that plain hint the old lady went away, closing the front door after her, and then the blind man helped the visitor to take off her heavy coat and put her into a chair. He found his way back to the music stool without difficulty, but in sitting down he brushed the keys of the piano with his coat sleeve. "Your dear, good father gave me this. A wonderful improvement on the one we've scrapped. Did you hear me murdering Beethoven as you came in? One's only chance now to score off the poor blighters!" His cheerfulness, his whimsical courage, were amazing to Sally. "Since last we met things have happened, haven't they? South Kensington Tube Station, December, 1913. Æons ago." He sighed like a child. "By the way, tell me, did you get a letter I sent to you when you did your 'go' of time?" Sally had received the letter. Soft the admission and also blushing, although he could not see that. "Wasn't meant as an impertinence, though perhaps it was one. Always doing the wrong things at that time, wasn't I? And I'm saying 'em now. Born under bad stars." He laughed a little and paused. "Jove! what wonderful things you've done, though." "I've had luck." Her voice was firm at last. "Not more than you deserve. Hell of a time in Serbia ... must have had. Don't know how you managed to come through it."