would not do, for many reasons, to go oftener to the shoemaker's,
especially now that the days were getting longer. Nor was that what
he wanted. He wanted opportunity for practice. He wanted to be
alone with the creature, to see if she would not say something more
to him than she had ever said yet. Wafts and odours of melodies
began to steal upon him ere he was aware in the half lights between
sleeping and waking: if he could only entice them to creep out of
the violin, and once 'bless his humble ears' with the bodily hearing
of them! Perhaps he might--who could tell? But how? But where?

There was a building in Rothieden not old, yet so deserted that its
very history seemed to have come to a standstill, and the dust that
filled it to have fallen from the plumes of passing centuries. It
was the property of Mrs. Falconer, left her by her husband. Trade
had gradually ebbed away from the town till the thread-factory stood
unoccupied, with all its machinery rusting and mouldering, just as
the work-people had risen and left it one hot, midsummer day, when
they were told that their services were no longer required. Some of
the thread even remained upon the spools, and in the hollows of some
of the sockets the oil had as yet dried only into a paste; although
to Robert the desertion of the place appeared immemorial. It stood
at a furlong's distance from the house, on the outskirt of the town.
There was a large, neglected garden behind it, with some good
fruit-trees, and plenty of the bushes which boys love for the sake
of their berries. After grannie's jam-pots were properly filled,
the remnant of these, a gleaning far greater than the gathering, was
at the disposal of Robert, and, philosopher although in some measure
he was already, he appreciated the privilege. Haunting this garden
in the previous summer, he had for the first time made acquaintance
with the interior of the deserted factory. The door to the road was