At length, as the afternoon went on, I began to distinguish what tunes were being attempted.  I made out a bar or two of the old French Republican air, ‘The Marseillaise,’ and then I was almost startled by what came next, for it was a tune I had known well since I was a very little child.  It was ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ and that was my mother’s favourite tune; in fact, I never heard it without thinking of her.  Many and many a time had she sung me to sleep with that tune.  I had scarlet fever when I was five years old, and my mother had nursed me through it, and when I was weary and fretful she would sing to me—­my pretty fair-haired mother.  Even as I sat before my easel I could see her, as she sat at the foot of my bed, with the sunshine streaming upon her through the half-darkened window, and making her look, to my boyish imagination, like a beautiful angel.  And I could hear her voice still; and the sweet tones in which she sang that very song to me, ’Home, sweet home, there’s no place like home.’

I remembered one night especially, in which she knelt by my bed and prayed that she might meet her boy in the bright city, the sweet home above the sky which was the best and brightest home of all.  I wonder what she would think of me now, I said to myself, and whether she ever will see me there.  I very much doubt it; it seems to me that I am a long way off from Home, Sweet Home now.

My mother had died soon after that illness of mine, and I knew that she had gone to live in that beautiful home of which she had so often spoken to me.  And I had been left behind, and my aunt, who had brought me up, had cared for none of these things, and I had learnt to look at the world and at life from her worldly standpoint, and had forgotten to seek first the Kingdom of God.  Oh! if my mother only knew, my pretty, beautiful mother, I said to myself that day.  And then there came the thought, perhaps she does know, and the thought made me very uncomfortable.  I wished, more than ever, that that cracked old instrument, whatever it was, would stop.

But, in spite of all my wishes, the strange sound went on, and again and again I had to listen to ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ and each time that it came it set my memory going, and brought back to me the words and the looks which I thought I had forgotten.  And it set something else going too—­the still, small voice within, accusing me of forgetfulness, not so much of my mother as of my mother’s God.

I began to wish most heartily that I had chosen some other spot for my picture.  But it was working out so well that I felt it would be a great mistake to change, and I hoped that the individual, man, woman, or child, who had been making that horrible noise might find some other employment to-morrow, and might leave me in peace.

The next day my wishes were fulfilled, for I was not disturbed, and very little happened except that my picture made progress.  Then came two wet days, on which I had to paint in my little chamber, and did not get back to my seat under the wall.