I was at my painting early the next morning, for the sun was shining brightly, and the air was wonderfully clear.  My portrait of little Jack sitting in the boat promised to be a great success.  As I was hard at work upon it that day, I heard a voice behind me.

‘I never thought my little lad would figure in the Royal Academy,’ said the voice.

It was the voice of Jack’s father—­the voice which had moved me so deeply, the voice which had made me tremble, only the day before.  Even as he spoke I felt inclined to run away, lest he should ask me again that terrible question which had been ringing in my ears ever since.  Even as I talked to him about my picture, and even as he answered in pleasant and friendly tones, through them all and above them all came the words which were burnt in upon my memory:  ’What are the depths, the fearful depths, to which you are being drawn?’

‘I hope my children are not troublesome to you,’ he said.

‘Oh no,’ I answered; ’I love to have them here, and Jack and I are great friends.  Do you know,’ I went on, ’he took me into your study the other day?  I am afraid I was taking a great liberty; but the little man would hear of no refusal—­he wanted me to see the old barrel-organ.’

‘What, my dear old organ!’ he answered.  ’Yes, Jack is nearly as fond of it as his father is.’

‘His father?’ I replied, for it seemed strange to me that a man of his years should care for what appeared to me scarcely better than a broken toy.

‘That organ has a history,’ he said, as he noticed my surprise; ’if you knew the history, you would not wonder that I love it.  I owe all I am in this world, all I hope to be in the world to come, to that poor old organ.  Some day, when you have time to listen, perhaps you may like to hear the story of the organ.’

‘Thank you,’ I said; ‘the sooner the better.’

’Then come and have supper with us to-night.  Nellie will be very pleased to see you, and the bairns will be in bed, and we shall have plenty of time and quiet for story-telling.’

I accepted his invitation gratefully, for September had come, and the evenings were growing dark, and my time hung somewhat heavily on my hands.  Polly, I think, was not sorry when she heard I was going out, for Duncan was away in the boat fishing, and little John was so feverish and restless that she could not put him down even for a moment.

The cottage looked very bright and pretty when I arrived, and they gave me a most kind welcome.  A small fire was burning in the grate, for the evenings were becoming chilly.  The bow window was hung with India-muslin curtains, tied up with amber ribbon, the walls were adorned with photographs framed in oak, the supper table was covered with a snowy cloth, and a dainty little meal was laid out with the greatest taste and care, whilst in the centre was a china bowl, containing the leaves of the creeper which covered