close over the heart, listened for some
sign of life, but the old man was beyond
human aid.

He wheeled the chair to the side of
the room and moved the body to the
sofa. Gently he covered it with a robe.
The awfulness of the situation forced
itself upon him, and bitterly he blamed
himself. The terrible power of the
instrument dawned upon him in all its
force. Often he had played on the strings
telling of pity, hope, love and joy, but
now, for the first time, he realized what
that fifth string meant.

``I must give it back to its owner.''

``If you do you can never regain it,''
whispered a voice within.

``I do not need it,'' said the violinist,
almost audibly.

``Perhaps not,'' said the voice, ``but
if her love should wane how would you
rekindle it? Without the violin you
would be helpless.''

``Is it not possible that, in this old man's death,