The Fifth String

He sat looking into the fire. The violin had brought back memories of the past and its dead. He mumbled, as if to the fire, ''she loved me; she loved my violin. I was a devil; my violin was a devil,'' and the shadows on the wall swayed like accusing spirits. He buried his face in his hands and cried piteously, ''I was so young; too young to know.'' He spoke as if he would conciliate the ghastly shades that moved restlessly up and down, when suddenly --''Sanders, don't be a fool!''