fishery off the northern parts of our coast. For a long

"And you loved him, too, I know" she choked. "He talks of you often--very often."

"Indeed I love him! Who could help it?"

"There couldn't anybody, Mr. Jack,--and that's just it. Now, since he's been sick, we've wondered more than ever who he is. You see, I can't help thinking that somewhere he's got friends who ought to know about him--now."

"He isn't an ordinary boy, Mr. Jack. He's been trained in lots of ways--about his manners, and at the table, and all that. And lots of things his father has told him are beautiful, just beautiful! He isn't a tramp. He never was one. And there's his playing. YOU know how he can play."

"Indeed I do! You must miss his playing, too."

"I do; he talks of that, also," she hurried on, working her fingers nervously together; "but oftenest he--he speaks of singing, and I can't quite understand that, for he didn't ever sing, you know."

"Singing? What does he say?" The man asked the question because he saw that it was affording the overwrought little woman real relief to free her mind; but at the first words of her reply he became suddenly alert.

"It's 'his song,' as he calls it, that he talks about, always. It isn't much--what he says--but I noticed it because he always says the same thing, like this: I'll just hold up my chin and march straight on and on, and I'll sing it with all my might and main.' And when I ask him what he's going to sing, he always says, 'My song--my song,' just like that. Do you think, Mr. Jack, he did have--a song?"