The lamp burned badly, and I had to re-trim it before I could settle down to read my friend's letter. Next door some-one was playing a violin, and playing it well. Tenderly and yet with a certain amount of _brio_ the notes came dancing from the bow, and I listened, vaguely pleased. Being faint with hunger I was somewhat in a listless state bordering on stupor,--and the penetrating sweetness of the music appealing to the sensuous and æsthetic part of me, drowned for the moment mere animal craving. "There you go!" I murmured, apostrophizing the unseen musician,--"practising away on that friendly fiddle of yours,--no doubt for a mere pittance which barely keeps you alive. Possibly you are some poor wretch in a cheap orchestra,--or you might even be a street-player and be able to live in this neighbourhood of the _élite_ starving,--you can have no hope whatever of being the 'fashion' and making your bow before Royalty,--or if you have that hope, it is wildly misplaced. Play on, my friend, play on!--the sounds you make are very agreeable, and seem to imply that you are happy. I wonder if you are?--or if, like me, you are going rapidly to the devil!" The music grew softer and more plaintive, and was now accompanied by the rattle of hailstones against the window-panes. A gusty wind whistled under the door and roared down the chimney,--a wind cold as the grasp of death and searching as a probing knife. I shivered,--and bending close over the smoky lamp, prepared to read my Australian news. As I opened the envelope, a bill for fifty pounds, payable to me at a well-known London banker's, fell out upon the table. My heart gave a quick bound of mingled relief and gratitude. "Why Jack, old fellow, I wronged you!" I exclaimed,--"Your heart is in the right place after all." And profoundly touched by my friend's ready generosity, I eagerly perused his letter. It was not very long, and had evidently been written off in haste. Dear Geoff,