CHAPTER XXXIII

DESCRIBES THE MAGIC OF A FIDDLE A week has dragged its weary length of days, and leaning forth of his eyrie beneath the tiles, so far as he might by reason of narrow and inadequate dormer window, Sir Marmaduke looked down upon weather-beaten roofs, toppling gables and jagged chimney stacks decrepit with years, blackened by the smoke of countless generations and in every stage of ruinous decay. Beyond these and below he gazed upon that sink where the stream of life ran, old life and young, but little of it sweet an…