The lone violinist stood in the dark hall. In his hand was a beautiful and finely-crafted instrument. Slowly and sadly, he raised the instrument to his chin and lifted his bow. His mournful melody echoed through the empty hall. In the hands of the Master, the mellow and rich tone hit each note purely and without wavering. Yet the sad tune seemed to pull at the air, provoking the stale air of the old theater, pleading for a response. But no one was there. As the melody continued the light from the newlyopened rear door pierced through the darkness. The hunched, old janitor entered and put down his broom as he gazed at the lonely musician in the center of the hall, as he leaned on the arm of one of the old seats.