Untidy women and blear-eyed men leaned over the dilapidated fences, or lolled on mud-tracked doorsteps.

David, his shrinking eyes turning from one side to the other, passed slowly through the street, his violin under his arm.

Nowhere could David find here the tiniest spot of beauty to "play." He had reached quite the most forlorn little shanty on the street when the promise in his father's letter occurred to him.

With a suddenly illumined face, he raised his violin to position and plunged into a veritable whirl of trills and runs and tripping melodies.
"If I didn't just entirely forget that I didn't NEED to SEE anything beautiful to play," laughed David softly to himself.

"Why, it's already right here in my violin!" David had passed the tumble-down shanty, and was hesitating where two streets crossed, when he felt a light touch on his arm.