in knickerbockers, or a band of young
girls, or both trio and band together; and from a cross street, near by,
came the calls and laughter of romping children and the pulsating
whirr of a lawn-mower: This sound Harkless remarked as a ceaseless
accompaniment to life in Rouen; even in the middle of the night there
was always some unfortunate, cutting grass.

When the daylight was all gone, and the stars had crept out, strolling
negroes patrolled the sidewalks, thrumming mandolins and guitars, and
others came and went, singing, making the night Venetian. The untrained,
joyous voices, chording eerily in their sweet, racial minors, came on
the air, sometimes from far away. But there swung out a chorus from
fresh, Aryan throats, in the house south of Meredith's:

"Where, oh where, are the grave old Seniors?
Safe, now, in the wide, wide world!"

"Doesn't that thrill you, boy?" said Meredith, joining the group about
Harkless's chair. "Those fellows are Sophomores, class of heaven knows
what. _Aren't_ you feeling a fossil. Father Abraham?"

A banjo chattered on the lawn to the north, and soon a mixed chorus of
girls and boys sang from there:

"O, 'Arriet, I'm waiting, waiting alone out 'ere."

Then a piano across the street sounded the dearthful harmonies of
Chopin's Funeral March.

"You may take your choice," remarked Meredith, flicking a spark over the
rail in the ash of his cigar, "Chopping or Chevalier."

"Chopin, my friend," said the lady who had attached herself to
Harkless. She tapped Tom's shoulder with her fan and smiled, graciously
corrective.

"Thank you, Miss Hinsdale," he answered, gratefully. "And as I, perhaps,
had better say, since otherwise there might be a pause and I am the
host, we have a wide selection. In addition to what is provided at
present, I predict that within the next ten minutes a talented girl who
lives two doors south will favor us with the Pilgrims' Chorus, piano
arrangement, break down in the middle, and drift, into 'Rastus on
Parade,' while a double quartette of middle-aged colored gentlemen under
our Jim will make choral offering in our own back yard."

"My dear Tom," exclaimed Miss Hinsdale, "you forget Wetherford Swift!"

"I could stand it all," put forth the widower, "if it were not for
Wetherford Swift."

"When is Miss Sherwood coming home?" asked one of the ladies. "Why does
she stay away and leave him to his sufferings?"

"Us to his sufferings,"