on a coast line steamer sailing for the
Bahama Islands. Once there, he leased
a small cay, one of a group off the main
land, and lived alone and unattended,
save for the weekly visits of an old
fisherman and his son, who brought
supplies of provisions from the town
miles away. His dwelling-place,
surrounded with palmetto trees, was little
more than a rough shelter. Diotti arose
at daylight, and after a simple repast,
betook himself to practise. Hour after
hour he would let his muse run riot
with his fingers. Lovingly he wooed
the strings with plaintive song, then
conquering and triumphant would be
his theme. But neither satisfied him.
The vague dream of a melody more
beautiful than ever man had heard
dwelt hauntingly on the borders of his
imagination, but was no nearer realization
than when he began. As the day's
work closed, he wearily placed the
violin within its case, murmuring,
``Not yet, not yet; I have not found it.''

Days passed, weeks crept slowly
on; still he worked, but always
with the same result. One day,
feverish and excited, he played on