for, if waiting endowed it with such a flavor. Jim knew that Aleck would
relish the spin, too. Aleck's nature was that of a grind tempered with
sportiness. Jim sat down Sunday morning and wrote out the whole program
for Aleck's endorsement, sent the letter by special delivery and went out
to reconnoiter.

The era of Sunday orchestral concerts had begun, but that day, to Jim's
regret, the singer was not a contralto. "Dramatic Soprano" was on the
program; a new name, quite unknown to Jim. His interest in the soloist
waned, but the orchestra was enough. He thanked Heaven that he was past
the primitive stage of thinking any single voice more interesting than
the assemblage of instruments known as orchestra.

Hambleton found a place in the dim vastness of the hall, and sank into
his seat in a mood of vivid anticipation. The instruments twanged, the
audience gathered, and at last the music began. Its first effect was to
rouse Hambleton to a sharp attention to details--the director, the people
in the orchestra, the people in the boxes; and then he settled down,
thinking his thoughts. The past, the future, life and its meaning, love
and its power, the long, long thoughts of youth and ambition and desire
came flocking to his brain. The noble confluence of sound that is music
worked upon him its immemorial miracle; his heart softened, his
imagination glowed, his spirit stirred. Time was lost to him--and earth.

The orchestra ceased, but Hambleton did not heed the commotion about him.
The pause and the fresh beginning of the strings scarcely disturbed his
ecstatic reverie. A deep hush lay upon the vast assemblage, broken only
by the voices of the violins. And then, in the zone of silence that lay
over the listening people--silence that vibrated to the memory of the
strings--there rose a little song. To Hambleton, sitting absorbed, it