e end of January, and he is alluding to the
first week in the ensuing month. "I wish you could sing, Clarissa! I
dare say you would help me."

"Indeed I would. But Nature has proved unkind to me. And, after all,
you want no one else. The choir, in itself, is very efficient; and if
you must call for 'out-door relief,' why, you have Lady Mary, and the
others. That fearful young-man at Bellew is a fortune in himself; and
Mr. Johnson makes everybody cry--and it is so nice to cry."

"Yes,--yes,--I dare say," says the poor vicar, who is somewhat
_distrait_, and, to say the truth, a little miserable about the whole
undertaking. "Now, there is Sarah Martin. Do you think she will pull
through? On her I build all my hopes; but some inward doubt about her
oppresses me. Willie Bealman has a capital tenor; but he and Sarah
don't speak,--she refused him, I think,--and so they won't sing their
duet together. Then there is Lizzie Bealman, she might stand to me;
but she loses her voice when nervous, and has a most uncomfortable
trick of giggling when in the least excited."

"Put her in the background," says Clarissa. "She is of no use, except
in a chorus."

"Her people wouldn't stand it. They look upon her as a rising prima
donna. I assure you, my dear Clarissa," says the vicar, furtively
wiping his brow, "only for the sin of it, there are moments when I
could wish myself beneath the sod. The incessant worry is more than I
can bear!"

"Oh, now, don't say that," says Miss Peyton, patting his arm lovingly.
"It will be a great success, this concert: I know, I feel it will!"

CHAPTER XV.

"As sweet and musical
As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair;
And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods
Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony."--_Love's Labor's Lost._

It is night, and the 4th of February. Already is Pullingham turning
out, dressed in its very Sunday best, and is wending its way towards
the school-house, where the concert is to be held.

For the last week it has been deep in the mysteries of solos, duets,
and trios. Indeed, there is hardly a family in the whole village that
does not know by heart every mortal thing that is going to be sung,
each family possessing a son or a daughter engaged in the common work,
and belonging to the choir; yet nevertheless it now goes in a body to
the school-house, as possessed with curiosity as though music is an
art unknown to them, and the piping of sma