names, one by one, as each began.

'This is "My Poor Mary Anne," Mr. Jack, _very_ sad.' Then when that
was finished, 'This is the Old Hundred, _very_ old.'

After this there was a long turning of the handle without any sound
being heard, for the first part of the next tune was gone entirely. 'I
can't say the name of this one, Mr. Jack,' he explained; 'Marjorie calls
its something like "Ma says."'

'Oh! the "Marseillaise,"' I said, laughing; 'all right, little man, I
know that.'

'Then comes father's tune, father _does_ like it so. Listen, "Home,
sweet home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home." Do
_you_ like it, Mr. Jack?'

'Yes, I do like it, Jack,' I said; 'I knew it when I was a little chap
like you.'

As he played, once more it brought before me my mother's voice and my
mother's words. I had not thought of my mother for years so much as I
had done at Runswick Bay. Even the old organ brought her back to me, for
she was always kind to organ-grinders. There was an Italian who used to
come round with a barrel-organ when I was a little boy. I can see him
now. I used to watch for him from my nursery window, and as soon as he
came in sight I flew down to my mother for a penny, and then went into
the garden and stood beside him whilst he played. My mother gave me a
musical-box on my birthday; it was in the shape of a barrel-organ, and
had a strap which I could hang round my neck. I used to take this box