What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. His father was one of my old customers, and I am happy to find his son treading in his steps. CHAPTER XVII. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. Kneebone and Mr. Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it. Every care had been taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought shelter. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love.
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