with my eyes. I used to be near-sighted, and now I'll read you the
sign-board across the street easier than that big bill on the wall.'

He raised his violin, and struck out with spirit 'The March of the
Men of Harlech.'

'That's the teen as always goes with me on my way to work,' he said,
with a laugh. 'It keeps up my courage; this old timber o' mine
stumps time on the pavement, and I feel I'm good for something yet.
If only the hand'll keep steady! Firm enough yet, eh, Mr. Ackroyd?'

He swept the bow through a few ringing chords.

'Firm enough,' said Luke, 'and a fine tone, too. I suppose the older
the fiddle is the better it gets?'

'Ah, 'taint like these fingers. Old Jo Racket played this instrument
more than sixty years ago; so far back I can answer for it. You
remember Jo, Mrs. Bower, ma'am? Yes, yes, you can just remember him;
you was a little 'un when he'd use to crawl round from the work'us
of a Sunday to the "Green Man." When he went into the 'Ouse he give
the fiddle to Mat Trent, Lyddy and Thyrza's father, Mr. Ackroyd. Ah,
talk of a player! You should a' heard what Mat could do with this
'ere instrument. What do _you_ say, Mrs. Bower, ma'am?'

'He was a good player, was Mr. Trent; but not better than somebody
else we know of, eh, Mr. Hackroyd?'

'Now don't you go pervertin' my judgment with flattery, ma'am,' said
the old man, looking pleased for all that. 'Matthew Trent was