piano, and the brightest moments of his Sundays were often those spent
within sound of the roll of the organ.

It was like a snatch of the old life to find his fingers once more laid
caressingly on the notes of a piano; and as he touched them and began to
play, the Shucklefords, the _Rocket_, "Omega," all faded from his
thoughts, and he was lost in his music.

What a piano it was! Tinny and cracked and out of tune. The music was
in the boy's soul, and it mattered comparatively little. He began with
Weber's "last waltz," and dreamed off from it into a gavotte of
Corelli's, and from that into something else, calling up favourite after
favourite to suit the passing moods of his spirit, and feeling happier
than he had felt for months.

But Weber's "last waltz" and Corelli's gavottes are not the music one
would naturally select for musical chairs; and when the strains continue
uninterrupted for five or ten-minutes, during the whole of which time
the company is perambulating round and round an array of empty chairs,
the effect is somewhat monotonous. Mrs Shuckleford's guests trotted
round good-humouredly for some time, then they got a little tired, then
a little impatient, and finally Samuel, as he passed close behind the
music-stool, gave the performer a dig in the back, which had the desired
effect of stopping the music suddenly. Whereupon everybody flopped down
on the seat nearest within reach. Some found vacancies at once, others
had to scamper frantically round in search of them, and finally, as the
chairs were one fewer in number than the company, one luckless player
was left out to enjoy the fun of those who remained in.

"All right," said Samuel, when the first round was decided, and a chair
withdrawn in anticipation of the next; "I only nudged you to stop a bit
sooner, Cruden. The game will last till midnight if you give us such
long doses."

Doses! Reginald turned again to the piano and tried once more to lose
himself in its comforting music. He played a short German air of only
four lines, which ended in a plaintive, wailing cadence. Again the
moment the music ceased he heard the scuffling and scampering and
laughter behind him, and shouts of,--

"Polly's out! Polly's out!"

"I say," said Shuckleford, as they stood ready for the next round, "give
us a jingle, Cruden; `Pop goes the Weasel,' or something of that sort.
That last was like the tune the cow died of. And stop short in the
middle of a