Wafts of the outer air began to freshen the stuffiness of the little room.
The city was waking up.

There came the sound of far-away carts and horses, and a boy in the lane behind the house began to whistle, and then to sing.

"When I was young," he sang-- "When I was young I used to wait At Magea'n table 'n' hand de plate An' pais de bottie when he was dry, An' brush away de blue-tailed fly." "It's his song," Stanton said to himself, and with the air came a rush of strange feelings.

He remembered a thousand things, which before had been only a background of which he had been scarcely conscious.

The constant kindliness, the gentle healing sympathy, the homely humour which he once thought had irritated but which he now knew had soothed him....