pictures. He even bought a catalogue, and, prompted by a natural
curiosity for anything that interested him, learned the names of the
artists he liked best, and the bits of biography attached to each. He
would recite these to the yellow kitten when he got back to his little
hot-box of a room.

One night the art gallery was closed, and he went into another big
building where a crowd of people were seated. At one end of it was a
great pipe-organ, and after a while some one began to play. With his
cap tightly grasped in both hands, he tiptoed down the center aisle
and stood breathlessly drinking in the wonderful tones that seemed to
be coming from his own heart.

"Get out of the way, boy," said an usher. "You are blocking the
aisle."

A queer-appearing lady who looked like a man touched his elbow.

"Here's a seat," she said in a deep voice.

"Thank you, sir," said Sandy, absently. He scarcely knew whether he
was sitting or standing. He only wanted to be let alone, so that he
could listen to those strange, beautiful sounds that made a shiver of
joy go down his back. Art had had her day; it was Music's turn.

When the last number had been played, he turned to the queer lady:

"Do they do it every night?"

She smiled at his enthusiasm: "Wednesdays and Saturdays."