"Pardon me," she cried; "but I cannot help it! Just at this time yesterday they carried away my poor friend, the Old Musician. He died three weeks after his young friend, the painter."
Her voice was choked with tears.
There was no need of further inquiry. Poor Bach was a wanderer no more.
ON ST. PETER DELIVERED FROM PRISON.
This is no mystery
Or juggler's play
Which here is told.
What lock can stay
Him who the key
Of heaven doth hold?
"IT'S WRONG!"
"It's wrong! It's wrong!" the whole day long
My hidden censor has piped the song,
Till my ears are tingling like a gong
With—"It's wrong! It's wrong!"