well to be him, not a
blessed thing to bother him. It's great how easy some people get
through the world."

That night, after a warm supper, the old doctor sat in the cheerful
kitchen of the Perkins home and watched Martha quickly and deftly
clearing away the dishes. Humming to himself an air from "Faust" no
one would have thought that he was deliberately contemplating doing a
match-making turn, but certain it is that his brain was busy devising
means of suggesting to Arthur what a splendid girl Martha was.
There was this difference between Dr. Emory and Pearl Watson as
match-makers,--Pearl played the game perfectly fair, calling to her
aid such honest helps as the spelling-book and the pages of the
Woman's Magazine. The doctor, who knew more of the devious paths of
the human heart, chose other weapons for his warfare.

Arthur came over for his bread that evening also, and when Dr. Emory
went to the organ in the parlour and began to play, every one in the
house went in to listen. He did not often play without being asked,
but to-night he suggested it himself. The parlour lamp was lighted, a
gorgeous affair with a large pink globe on which a stalwart deer,
poised on a rock, was about to spring across a rushing stream. But
the parlour lamp seemed to expend all its energy lighting up, the
deer and stream and the wreath of wild roses on the other side, and
have very little left for the room. The doctor silently commended its
dim light, for it suited his purpose better.

At Mr. Perkins's request he played Irish reels and jigs. Mrs. Perkins
had only one favourite, "Home, Sweet Home," with variations; that was
the only tune she was real sure of. When the Doctor got these two
orders filled he began the real business of the evening with Handel's
"Largo." Mr. Perkins began to yawn and soon took his departure,
closely followed by Mrs. Perkins. They unitedly declared that they
"didn't like a die-away ducky piece like that that hadn't any swing
to it."

The Doctor's fine old eyes were shining with a real purpose as he
played. "I'll suggest their thoughts for them," the old man was
chuckling to himself. "Who can resist these dreamy love-songs?"--he
was playing Schubert's "Serenade." "Twilight and music! If the moon
would only show her face at the window! I'm letting loose a whole
flock of cupids. Oh, I know, I know, I've heard their whispers--they
tell you there is no death or loneliness--or separation--lying little
rascals! B