e fruits of energy and resolution. Cared I for an apology? I
took the blows as I take hail from the clouds--which apologize to you the
moment you are in shelter, if you laugh at them. So, good night to that
matter! Are we to have rain this evening? I must away into Bevisham to
the Workmen's Hall, and pay the men.'

'There will not be rain; there will be frost, and you must be well
wrapped if you must go,' said Jenny. 'And tell them not to think of
deputations to Captain Beauchamp yet.'

'No, no deputations; let them send Killick, if they want to say
anything,' said Beauchamp.

'Wrong!' the doctor cried; 'wrong! wrong! Six men won't hurt you more
than one. And why check them when their feelings are up? They burn to be
speaking some words to you. Trust me, Beauchamp, if we shun to encounter
the good warm soul of numbers, our hearts are narrowed to them. The
business of our modern world is to open heart and stretch out arms to
numbers. In numbers we have our sinews; they are our iron and gold.
Scatter them not; teach them the secret of cohesion. Practically, since
they gave you not their entire confidence once, you should not rebuff
them to suspicions of you as aristocrat, when they rise on the effort to
believe a man of, as 'tis called, birth their undivided friend. Meet
them!'

'Send them,' said Beauchamp.

Jenny Denham fastened a vast cloak and a comforter on the doctor's
heedless shoulders and throat, enjoining on him to return in good time
for dinner.

He put his finger to her cheek in reproof of such supererogatory counsel
to a man famous for his punctuality.

The day had darkened.

Beauchamp begged Jenny to play to him on the piano.

'Do you indeed care to have music?' said she. 'I did not wish you to meet
a deputation, because your strength is not yet equal to it. Dr. Shrapnel
dwells on principles, forgetful of minor considerations.'

'I wish thousands did!' cried Beauchamp. 'When you play I seem to hear
ideas. Your music makes me think.'

Jenny lit a pair of candles and set them on the piano. 'Waltzes?' she
asked.

'Call in a puppet-show at once!'

She smiled, turned over some leaves, and struck the opening notes of the
Ninth Symphony of Beethoven, and made her selections.

At the finish he said: 'Now read me your father's poem, "The Hunt of the
Fates."'

She read it to him.

'Now read, "The Ascent from the Inferno."'

That she read: and also 'Soul and Brute,' another of his favourites.

H