one of the most unmusical men I have ever met.  The professor had followed this up with a learned discourse on the gusla, and the lesson to be learnt from it in the origin and development of modern music, when suddenly the sounds of a violin, being tuned in the room behind us, arrested his flow of speech.  In another few moments the unseen musician began to play, and a deep silence fell upon us, for he was playing our music and recalling memories of bygone days.  Snatches from Italian opera, and old well-known songs followed each other as we sat in the twilight and listened, conjuring up pictures of opera-house and concert-hall in this far-away land.  Then the music ceased, and the tinkling of coins on a plate proclaimed the status of our serenader.  In a few minutes a ragged, fair-haired boy stood before us, wearily holding a plate in his hand.  As we dived into our pockets the doctor asked him in Serb, who he was and whence he came.  He gazed blankly in answer, and P. said to me, “He looks quite English.”  A joyful smile lit up his tired face as he answered—­

“I am English, sir.  I will fetch father; he will be so pleased.”

His father came out, a battered violin under his arm, and we were all struck with his miserable half-starved and ragged appearance.  He played to us, he did not even play well, poor fellow, but still we listened appreciatively, and then some of us took him home, fed him, and we all contributed to his wardrobe.  We were all of different sizes and build, and the result was sadly comical.  Before he left us he told his story.  It was not new or even interesting, but intensely pathetic; one of a large family, fair education, and finally a clerk at L80 a year.  A pretty typewriter, marriage, and no help from his father.  First the girl wife was dismissed, and then the boy husband.  The child was born, and the mother died from lack of proper nourishment and comfort.  For a few years the father earned a few coppers by playing before public-houses in the East End, and then took to the road.  Somehow or other he found himself on the Continent, and after many years he had turned up here.  It was all very vague and incoherent.  Often starving, homeless, and speaking no language but his own, is it to be wondered that the man had lost count of days, years, and time?  Now he had a desire to journey to Greece, why, he knew not, but he clung to it with all a weak man’s obstinacy.  We could never let him trudge through Albania, and so the Scotchman procured him a free passage to Corfu by steamer.  He left us one morning, leading his son by the hand, and over his shoulder a sack containing his worldly possessions, a sorrowful, ludicrous, and pitiful picture.