peace and comfort."

[Illustration: "WHAT THE DEUCE AM I TO DO WITH THIS CONFOUNDED ROPE?
HANG MYSELF, I WONDER."]

Did Tag ever go, I wonder? Did he come back, and has he perhaps
been enjoying his "old age" somewhere over here for the last thirty
years?--I wish you would say what _has_ become of you, my dear Tag.
I'm sure we should be chums again, if you're anything like the dear
old stick-in-the-mud of former days! Don't you recollect that sketch
of Rag's? I had nearly forgotten to mention it, the one with the three
ropes of life. I am climbing ahead with fiendish energy. Rag follows,
steadily ascending, weighted as he is with a treasure, a box marked
"Mrs. Rag, with care," and your noble form is squatting on the floor,
a glass of the best blend at your feet, and a cigar you are enjoying
from which rises the legend that makes you say, "What the deuce am I
to do with this confounded rope? Hang myself, I wonder?" Nonsense, to
be sure; but do come and tell me what you _have_ done with the rope,
or say where I can find you still squatting.

That music of a certain spontaneous kind, the music within us which we
were ever longing to bring to the surface, was a bond of union between
du Maurier and myself, I have already mentioned; but that bond was to
be greatly strengthened by the music that great musicians on more than
one occasion lavished on us. First came Louis Brassin, the pianist. He
had studied under Moscheles at the Conservatorio of Leipsic, the city
of Bach and Mendelssohn fame; and there, from the days of his boyhood,
he had belonged to the little circle of intimates who frequently
gathered around the master at his house.