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34 cheer my old days. Anyway, you came, a fact that I appreciate, and you forebore to ask questions; and I understood your tact in avoiding reminding me of my loss. But the fact is, I had you here not for my loneliness, although I am lonely, and my loss is rarely out of my mind. I had you here to measure myself by you, for I have had fears that I am going mad. This violin is your Uncle Joel's, and that newly-made grave out yonder I believe to be his.'

"Grandfather paused as if uncertain how to proceed further. Had Uncle Joel come home but to die, then? Or had they found his body? I wondered. When on the point of giving way to these questions, I had them answered in the story which my grandfather again resumed.

You possibly remember,' he continued, 'that at the time of Joel's disappearance diligent search was made in his accustomed haunts and in the surrounding neighborhood, but without result. We looked for a mangled or wounded body out in the open; we never looked for a prisoner under lock and key. Even if it had occurred to us, who of our neighbors—and they were few—would be guilty of abducting him? He had property, but how could his abductors hope to profit by it with him a prisoner?

But all of this never occurred to us till too late. Months passed by, months in which he suffered all the torture of the damned, and we were beginning to hope that he, if he had merely gone off, would soon return. I nearly go mad when I think that he was almost at our doors—right up on that mountain in a cabin—starving!

"Here the recital proved too much for my grandfather, and he was obliged to pause. My heart went out to the old man, for he seemed so broken and help less, and, under the influence of the stress of the emotions of the past few moments, he appeared to age perceptibly. I opened my mouth to protest against a further recital when, after a desperate effort at control, he continued:

One day, while restlessly riding about, I passed the cabin and noted the heavy door and the heavy iron bars across the windows. I had heard that the building had been used as a prison during the Revolutionary War. It was an old building, but remarkably well preserved, and seemed capable even then of holding prisoners.

Idly I rode up to the window and looked in. I was on the point of turning away, when, in the shadow near the door, I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be old clothes. It occurred to me that they might be the clothes of a Revolutionary prisoner. Curiosity carried me around to the door, which 1 found to be locked on the outside with padlock and chain. The chain proved to be rust-eaten and so worn that by a little effort with a stick I broke it and entered.

You can imagine my horror and loathing when I discovered that the clothes covered a skeleton. Something strangely familiar about the clothes caused me to turn the skeleton over, when, from the coat and the fleshless arms, there rolled—this violin! Instantly I thought of Joel. I know not why, but it is a fact. With fingers trembling from half-formed fears, I opened the case. Before me lay my son's violin, and I knew no more."

I finally regained consciousness the sun was setting and my horse was snorting with fright at the open door. I tarried long enough to compose what was left of my poor son's body, intending to return that night and to convey it to our family engaged in this sad duty, I observed for the first time that the skeleton was not an old one, for parts of the flesh still adhered to the bone in places. But my heart broke when I found a half masticated piece of leather between the poor jaws!'

"Again Grandfather paused, overcome, and I begged him to desist from so painful a recital. He shook his head

The rest is soon told. I will finish, for you must know all. I returned that night, as intended, and with help performed the last sad rites for my boy. The violin I placed in the corner there by the bookcase, later moving it to where you found it.

Late one night, after a dismal day of rain and sleet, I was trying to read when a spell of restlessness assailed me. was such a night as made one wish to nestle in a cozy chair close up to a roaring fire to read. My mind constantly reverted to Joel and his sad fate. Finally I gave up the attempt and laid the book upon the table, intending to let the sound of the wind and rain lull me into forgetfulness and sleep. The wind had risen considerably and was moaning and whimpering about the caves, and at every sudden gust the rain and sleet would beat like ghostly fingertips upon the window-pane.

Realizing that my efforts were useless, I rose and carried the book I had been trying to read back to the case. Idly, my glance fell upon the violin and it suddenly occurred to me that I had not closely examined it since I found it. I wondered if it were in good repair after months of exposure in a poor cabin in all sorts of weather. With this in mind, I opened the case and took the violin out. The strings were all broken, but the violin had not suffered—a fact due to the coat and protecting arms of my poor boy.

I soon had it restrung and was preparing to draw the bow across the strings when I heard a low sweet melody that I recognized as an improvisation of Joel's. It appeared to come from his room. Hardly knowing what I dared to hope, I rushed madly into his room. Had Joel after all these months, come back? His room was as empty as it had been for months. But the melody continued, now. in another part of the house. Again I rushed after it, but with like result. Will-o'the-wisplike, it appeared to be leading me! Leading me where?

I rushed back into the library and placed the violin in the case. I intended to follow that melody, which now seemed to be coming from afar. Out on the burying-ground for interment. While porch I ran, heedless now of rain or sleet. Could it, after all, have been the wind? Was it my fancy? But no; down the wind, as if borne by it, came the melody, leading me—leading me to the mountain!

I followed. Through the storm I followed. Up the mountain, to the cabin, and beyond I followed—followed till the storm broke and the dawn appeared. Exhausted and fainting, I fell; and there, several hours later, the searching party found me muttering and groping in delirium. They carried me home, and for a month or more I lay between life and death.

When I recovered, the people around looked at me pityingly, I knew they believed me mad! Am I? I can still reason. Is not my story coherent? Or do I merely have seasons of madness? I have begun to have fears, for at times I still hear that melody and I always follow. For three years now this has continued until I have worn a trail up the mountain. I never know what I hope to find—Joel or his murderer. I cannot believe that Joel, after all these years, still lives. And yet hope dies hard, they say. If he does live, whose skeleton is that?

And now you know all. I wanted you here to see if you, too, could hear The Phantom Violinist, as I have begun to call him. But my fears seem to grow. The Phantom Violinist played today—and you did not hear!'

ended my grandfather's story, and you may guess that, young as I was, I grasped what his closing words