Things had gone ill with him. Outside of Paradise, deserted of his
angel, in the frost and the snow, the voice of the despised violin
once more the source of a sad comfort! But there is no better
discipline than an occasional descent from what we count well-being,
to a former despised or less happy condition. One of the results of
this taste of damnation in Robert was, that when he was in bed that
night, his heart began to turn gently towards his old master. How
much did he not owe him, after all! Had he not acted ill and
ungratefully in deserting him? His own vessel filled to the brim
with grief, had he not let the waters of its bitterness overflow
into the heart of the soutar? The wail of that violin echoed now in
Robert's heart, not for Flodden, not for himself, but for the
debased nature that drew forth the plaint. Comrades in misery, why
should they part? What right had he to forsake an old friend and
benefactor because he himself was unhappy? He would go and see him
the very next night. And he would make friends once more with the
much 'suffering instrument' he had so wrongfully despised.
CHAPTER II.
THE STROKE.
The following night, he left his books on the table, and the house
itself behind him, and sped like a grayhound to Dooble Sanny's shop,
lifted the latch, and entered.
By the light of a single dip set on a chair, he saw the shoemaker
seated on his stool, one hand lying on the lap of his leathern
apron, his other hand hanging down by his side, and the fiddle on
the ground at his feet.
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