This room had a small bow-window overlooking the sea, the walls were covered with bookshelves, a writing-table stood in the window, and in the corner by the fireplace was the extraordinary object I had been brought to see—­an extremely ancient and antiquated barrel-organ.

What a peculiar thing to come across in a preacher’s study!  What possible use could he have for it?  It was a most dilapidated old instrument, almost falling to pieces with old age.  The shape was so old-fashioned that I do not remember ever having seen one like it; the silk, which had doubtless once been its adornment, was torn into shreds, and it was impossible to tell what its original colour had been; the wood was worm-eaten and decayed, and the leg upon which it had rested could no longer support its weight.

‘Let me hear you play it, Jack,’ I said.

He sat down with great pride to turn the handle, but I noticed that half the notes were broken off the barrel, which accounted for only fragments of each tune being heard, whilst many bars of some were wanting altogether.  However, Jack seemed very proud of his performance, and insisted on my staying till he had gone through the whole of the four tunes which the poor old thing was supposed to play.  He announced their names, one by one, as each began.

‘This is “My Poor Mary Anne,” Mr. Jack, very sad.’  Then when that was finished, ‘This is the Old Hundred, very old.’

After this there was a long turning of the handle without any sound being heard, for the first part of the next tune was gone entirely.  ’I can’t say the name of this one, Mr. Jack,’ he explained; ’Marjorie calls its something like “Ma says."’

‘Oh! the “Marseillaise,"’ I said, laughing; ’all right, little man, I know that.’

’Then comes father’s tune, father does like it so.  Listen, “Home, sweet home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.”  Do you like it, Mr. Jack?’

‘Yes, I do like it, Jack,’ I said; ’I knew it when I was a little chap like you.’

As he played, once more it brought before me my mother’s voice and my mother’s words.  I had not thought of my mother for years so much as I had done at Runswick Bay.  Even the old organ brought her back to me, for she was always kind to organ-grinders.  There was an Italian who used to come round with a barrel-organ when I was a little boy.  I can see him now.  I used to watch for him from my nursery window, and as soon as he came in sight I flew down to my mother for a penny, and then went into the garden and stood beside him whilst he played.  My mother gave me a musical-box on my birthday; it was in the shape of a barrel-organ, and had a strap which I could hang round my neck.  I used to take this box with me, and standing beside the Italian, I imitated his every movement, holding my little organ just as he held his big one, and playing beside him as long as he remained.  So delightful did this man’s occupation seem to me, that I can remember quite well when my father asked me one day what I would like to be when I was a man, I answered without a moment’s hesitation, ‘An organ-grinder, of course, father.’