tered, begged to be let alone. Life was at such a low ebb in him that his breathing was imperceptible. Harry Baggs was afraid that he would die without a sound—leave him. He gave up his questioning and sang. He was swept to his feet by a great wave of feeling; with his head back, he sent the resonant volume of his tones toward the stars. Baggs stopped suddenly; stillness once more flooded the plowed hill and he raised imploring arms to the sky in a gust of longing.
"I want to sing!" he cried. "That's all—to sing."
Janin was brighter in the morning.
"You must have some exercises," he told the boy. "I'll get new strings for the violin; it'll do to give you the pitch."
At the day's end they went again to the hilltop. French Janin tightened and tuned his instrument.
"Now!" he measured, with poised bow. "Ah!" Both his voice and violin were tremulous, shrill; but they indicated the pitch of the desired note. "Ah!" the old man quavered, higher.
"Ah!" Harry Baggs boomed in his tremendous round tone.
They repeated the exercises until a slip of a new moon, like a wistful girl, sank and darkness hid the countryside. A palpitating chorus of frogs rose from the invisible streams. Somnolence again overtook Janin; the violin slipped into the fragrant grass by the fence, but his fingers still clutched the bow.
Pity for the other stirred Baggs' heart. He wondered what had ruined him, brought him—a man who had
