Lanman played the
violin, and his wife the piano; and they discoursed some excellent
music. Then, still better, there was singing. The deep-chested Forrest
had a superb bass voice; Lanman a fine tenor; Annie's voice was light,
but exceedingly sweet and expressive; and they sang several pieces
together, to her own accompaniment on the piano. Then Lanman said,--

"Now it is your turn, Jack."

"But you know," replied Jack, "I never play or sing for anybody, when
your wife or Forrest is present."

"True; but you can dance."

"O yes! a dance, Jack!" cried Annie.

Vinnie clapped her hands. "Has Jack told you," she said, "how, on the
steamboat going from Albany to New York, after they had had their
pockets picked, he and George Greenwood collected a little
money,--George playing the flute and Jack dancing, for the amusement of
the passengers?"

Jack laughed, and looked at his shoes.

"Well, come to the kitchen, where there's no carpet on the floor, and
I'll give you what I call the 'Canal Driver's Hornpipe.' Bring your
flute, Forrest."

So they went to the kitchen; and all stood, while Jack, with wild grace
of attitude and wonderful ease and precision of movement, performed one
of his most difficult and spirited dances.

When it was ended, in the midst of the laughter and applause, he caught
up a hat, and gayly passed it around for pennies. But while the men were
feeling in their pockets, he appeared suddenly to remember where he was.

"Beg pardon," he cried, sailing his hat into a corner, and whirling on
his heel,--"I forgot myself; I thought I was on the deck of the
steamboat!"

This closed the evening's entertainment.

When Vinnie, retiring to her room, laid her head on the pillow, she
thought of the night before and of this night, and asked her heart if it
could ever again know two evenings so purely happy.

Then a great wave of anxiety swept over her mind, as she thought of the
other home, to which she must hasten on the morrow.

CHAPTER XII.

VINNIE'S FUTURE HOME.

A lively sensation was produced, the next forenoon, when a youth and a
girl, in a one-horse wagon, with a big dog and a small trunk, arrived at
Lord Betterson's "castle."

Link dashed into the house, screaming, "They've come! they've come!"

"Who has come?" gasped poor Mrs. Betterson, with a start of alarm,
glancing her eye about the disordered room.

"Jack What's-his-name! the fellow that shot the deer and lost his horse.
It'