ted night or day, and took out an
ear-trumpet of the old-fashioned kind--something between a key-bugle and
a French horn. "I don't care to use the thing generally," explained Mrs.
Pentecost, "because I'm afraid of its making me deafer than ever. But
I can't and won't miss the music. I dote on music. If you'll hold the
other end, Sammy, I'll stick it in my ear. Neelie, my dear, tell him to
begin."

Young Pedgift was troubled with no nervous hesitation. He began at once,
not with songs of the light and modern kind, such as might have been
expected from an amateur of his age and character, but with declamatory
and patriotic bursts of poetry, set to the bold and blatant music which
the people of England loved dearly at the earlier part of the present
century, and which, whenever they can get it, they love dearly still.
"The Death of Marmion," "The Battle of the Baltic," "The Bay of
Biscay," "Nelson," under various vocal aspects, as exhibited by the
late Braham--these were the songs in which the roaring concertina and
strident tenor of Gustus Junior exulted together. "Tell me when you're
tired, ladies and gentlemen," said the minstrel solicitor. "There's no
conceit about _me_. Will you have a little sentiment by way of variety?
Shall I wind up with 'The Mistletoe Bough' and 'Poor Mary Anne'?"

Having favored his audience with those two cheerful melodies, young
Pedgift respectfully requested the rest of the company to follow his
vocal example in turn, offering, in every case, to play "a running
accompaniment" impromptu, if the singer would only be so obliging as to
favor him with the key-note.

"Go on, somebody!" cried Mrs. Pentecost, eagerly. "I tell you again, I
dote on music. We haven't had half enough yet, have we, Sammy?"

The Reverend Samuel made no reply. The unhappy man had reasons of his
own--not exactly in his bosom, but a little lower--for remaining silent,
in the midst of the general hilarity and the general applause. Alas for
humanity! Even maternal love is alloyed with mortal fallibility. Owing
much already to his excellent mother, the Reverend Samuel was now
additionally indebted to her for a smart indigestion.

Nobody, however, noticed as yet the signs and tokens of internal
revolution in the curate's face. Everybody was occupied in entreating
everybody else to sing. Miss Milroy appealed to the founder of the
feast. "Do sing something, Mr. Armadale," she said; "I should so like to
hear you!"

"If you on