faded, the transcript had been accurately made, and could be read with
tolerable comfort by an advanced musician in spite of the antiquated
notation.

Perhaps by accident, or perhaps by some mysterious direction which our
minds are incapable of appreciating, his eye was arrested by a suite of
four movements with a _basso continuo_, or figured bass, for the
harpsichord. The other suites in the book were only distinguished by
numbers, but this one the composer had dignified with the name of
"l'Areopagita." Almost mechanically John put the book on his
music-stand, took his violin from its case, and after a moment's tuning
stood up and played the first movement, a lively _Coranto_. The light of
the single candle burning on the table was scarcely sufficient to
illumine the page; the shadows hung in the creases of the leaves, which
had grown into those wavy folds sometimes observable in books made of
thick paper and remaining long shut; and it was with difficulty that he
could read what he was playing. But he felt the strange impulse of the
old-world music urging him forward, and did not even pause to light the
candles which stood ready in their sconces on either side of the desk.
The _Coranto_ was followed by a _Sarabanda_, and the _Sarabanda_ by a
_Gagliarda_. My brother stood playing, with his face turned to the
window, with the room and the large wicker chair of which I have spoken
behind him. The _Gagliarda_ began with a bold and lively air, and as he
played the opening bars, he heard behind him a creaking of the wicker
chair. The sound was a perfectly familiar one--as of some person placing
a hand on either arm of the chair preparatory to lowering himself into
it, followed by another as of the same person being leisurely seated.
But for the tones of the violin, all was silent, and the creaking of the
chair was strangely distinct. The illusion was so complete that my
brother stopped playing suddenly, and turned round expecting that some