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suddenly,

he groaned

aloud--he

had

thought of

Gyp's

figure

busy among

the

flowers at

home.

Missing

the right

turning,

he came in

at the

bottom of

the

street. A

fiddler in

the gutter

was

scraping

away on an

old

violin.

Fiorsen

stopped to

listen.

Poor

devil!

"Pagliacci!"

Going up

to the

man--dark,

lame, very

shabby, he

took out

some

silver,

and put

his other

hand on

the man's

shoulder.

"Brother,"

he said,

"lend me

your

fiddle.