Don't set my own heart against me! It is
hard enough to go without that."

Uncle Joseph sighed, and said no more. He
led the way across the road and down the
bye-street to his house. The cheerful man in the
shop was polishing a piece of wood behind
the counter, sitting in the same position in
which Sarah had seen him when she first
looked through the window on her arrival at
Truro. He had, good news for his master of
orders received, but Uncle Joseph listened
absently to all that his shopman said, and
hastened into the little back parlour without
the faintest reflection of its customary smile
on his face. "If I had no shop and no orders
I might go away with you, Sarah," he said
when he and his niece were alone. "Aïe! Aïe!
the setting out on this journey has been the
only happy part of it. Sit down and rest,
my child. I must put my best face upon it,
and get you some tea."

When the tea-tray had been placed on the
table, he left the room, and returned after an
absence of some little time with a basket in
his hand. When the porter came to carry
the luggage to the coach office, he would
not allow the basket to be taken away
at the same time, but sat down and placed
it between his feet while he occupied
himself in pouring out a cup of tea for his
niece.

The musical-box still hung at his side in
its travelling-case of leather. As soon as he
had poured out the cup of tea, he unbuckled
the strap, removed the covering from the
box, and placed it on the table near him.
His eyes wandered hesitatingly towards
Sarah, as he did this: he leaned forward, his
lips trembling a little, his hand trifling
uneasy with the empty leather-case that now
lay on his knees, and said to her in low,
unsteady tones:

"You will hear a little farewell song of
Mozart? It may be a long time, Sarah,
before he can play to you again. A little
farewell song, my child, before you go?"

His hand stole up gently from the leather-case
to the table, and set the box playing
the same air that Sarah had heard on the
evening when she entered the parlour, after
her journey from Somersetshire, and found
him sitting alone listening to the music.
What depths of sorrow there were now in
those few simple notes! What mournful
memories of past times gathered and swelled
in the heart at the bidding of that one little
plaintive melody! Sarah could not summon
the courage to lift her eyes to the old man's
face--they might have betrayed to him that
she was thinking of the days when the box
that he treasured so dearly, played the air
they were listening to now, by the bedside of
his dying child.

The stop had not been set, and the melody
after it had come to an end, began again.
But now, after the first few bars, the notes
succeeded one another more and more slowly
—the air grew less and less recognisable--
dropped at last to three notes, following each
other at long intervals—then ceased
altogether. The chain that governed the action
of the machinery had all run out: Mozart's
farewell song was silenced on a sudden, like
a voice that had broken down.

The old man started, looked earnestly at
his niece, and threw the leather-case over the
box as if he desired to shut out the sight of
it. "The music stopped so," he whispered
to himself, in his own language, "when little
Joseph died! Don't go!" he added quickly,
in English, almost before Sarah had time to
feel surprised at the singular change that
had taken place in his voice and manner.
"Don't go! Think better of it, and stop
with me."

"I have no choice, uncle, but to leave you
—indeed, indeed I have not! You don't
think me ungrateful? Comfort me at the
last moment by telling me that!"

He pressed her hand in silence, and kissed
her on both cheeks. "My heart is very
heavy for you, Sarah," he said. "The fear
has come to me that it is not for your own
good that you are going away from Uncle
Joseph, now."

"I have no choice," she sadly repeated,
"no choice but to leave you."

"It is time then to get the parting over."
The cloud of doubt and fear that had altered
his face, from the moment when the music
came to its untimely end, seemed to darken,
when he had said those words. He took up
the basket which he had kept so carefully
at his feet, and led the way out in silence.

They were barely in time: the driver was
mounting to his seat when they got to the
coach-office. "God preserve you, my child,
and send you back to me soon, safe and well.
Take the basket on your lap; there are some
little things in it for your journey." His
voice faltered at the last word, and Sarah felt
his lips pressed on her hand. The next instant
the door was closed, and she saw him
dimly through her tears, standing among the
idlers on the pavement, who were waiting to
see the coach drive off.

By the time they were a little way out of
the town, she was able to dry her eyes and
look into the basket. It contained a pot of
jam and a horn spoon, a small inlaid work-box
from the stock in the shop, a piece of
foreign-looking cheese, a French roll, and a
little paper-packet of money, with the words,
"Don't be angry!" written on it, in Uncle
Joseph's hand. Sarah closed the cover of the
basket again, and drew down her veil. She
had not felt the sorrow of the parting in all
its bitterness until that moment. Oh, how
hard it was to be banished from the sheltering
home that was offered to her by the one
friend she had left in the world!

While that thought was in her mind, the
old man was just closing the door of his
lonely parlour. His eyes wandered to the