‘Yes, Mr. big Jack,’ he said, as he ran out of the gate.

‘Come and talk to me, old chappie,’ I said, ’whilst I paint.  Who plays music in your house?’

‘I do,’ said little Jack.

’You do, Jack?  Why, you are a funny little fellow to play music!  What do you play on, and who taught you?’

‘Nobody teached me, Mr. Jack,’ he said; ‘I teached my own self.’

‘Teached your own self?  Why, how did you manage that?’ I asked.

’I turned him round and round and round, Mr. Jack, and the music came, and I teached my own self,’ he repeated.

‘What is it, Jack?’ I asked.  ‘Is it an old musical box?’

‘No, it’s an organ, a barrow-organ, Mr. Jack.’

’Oh, a barrel-organ you mean, little chappie; why, however in the world did you get hold of a barrel-organ?  Is it a little toy one?’

‘No, it’s big, ever so big,’ he said, stretching out his hands to show me its size.

‘Why, whoever gave you it?’ I asked.

‘It isn’t Jack’s own organ,’ said the child.

‘Whose is it, then?’

‘It’s father’s, father’s own organ.’

It seemed to me a most extraordinary thing for the mission preacher of Runswick Bay to have in his possession, but I did not like to ask any more questions at that time.

However, in the afternoon my little friend called to me over, the wall, ‘Big Mr. Jack, come here.’

‘Come where, my little man?’

‘Come inside and look at father’s organ; I’ll play it to you, Mr. Jack.’

‘What will father say if I come in?’

‘Father’s out.’

‘What will mother say?’

‘Mother’s out too.’

I did not much relish the idea of entering a man’s house in his absence, but such plaintive entreaties came from the other side of the wall.  Over and over again he pleaded, ‘Do come, Mr. Jack; do come quick, Mr. Jack!’ that at last, to please the child, I left my work for a few minutes and went up the steps which led to the gate of their garden.

It was only a small place, but very prettily laid out.  There was a tiny lawn, well kept, and covered with short, soft grass, and in the centre of this a round bed filled with geraniums, calceolarias, and lobelias.  Round the lawn, at the edge of the garden, was a border, in which grew all manner of gay and sweet-smelling flowers.  There were asters and mignonette, sweet-peas and convolvolus, heliotrope and fuchsias.  Then in front of me was the pretty cottage, with two gables and a red-tiled roof, the walls of which were covered from top to bottom with creeping plants.  Ivy and jessamine, climbing roses, virginia-creeper, and canariensis, all helped to make the little place beautiful.

‘What a pretty home you have, little Jack!’ I said.

He kept tight hold of my hand, lest I should escape from him, and led me on—­into a tiny entrance hall, past one or two doors, down a dark passage, and into a room at the back.