commenced in good earnest: it shrieked, it groaned,
wilder and noisier. Beethoven's Storm, roused by the fell touch of
a German pianist, were mild in comparison; and the mighty voice,
dominating the anguish of the cracking keys, had the full diapason of a
chorus. Certainly I am no judge of music, but to my ear the discord was
terrific,--to the ears of better informed amateurs it seemed ravishing.
All were spellbound; even Mrs. Poyntz paused from her knitting, as the
Fates paused from their web at the lyre of Orpheus. To this breathless
delight, however, soon succeeded a general desire for movement. To my
amazement, I beheld these formal matrons and sober fathers of families
forming themselves into a dance, turbulent as a children's ball at
Christmas; and when, suddenly desisting from his music, Margrave started
up, caught the skeleton hand of lean Miss Brabazon, and whirled her
into the centre of the dance, I could have fancied myself at a witch's
sabbat. My eye turned in scandalized alarm towards Mrs. Poyntz. That
great creature seemed as much astounded as myself. Her eyes were fixed
on the scene in a stare of positive stupor. For the first time, no
doubt, in her life, she was overcome, deposed, dethroned. The awe of her
presence was literally whirled away. The dance ceased as suddenly as it
had begun. Darting from the galvanized mummy whom he had selected as his
partner, Margrave shot to Mrs. Poyntz's side, and said, "Ten thousand
pardons for quitting you so soon, but the clock warns me that I have an
engagement elsewhere." In another moment he was gone.

The dance halted, people seemed slowly returning to their senses,
looking at each other bashfully and ashamed.

"I could not help it, dear," sighed Miss Brabazon at last, sinking into
a chair, and casting her deprecating, fainting eyes upon the hostess.

"It is witchcraft," said fat Mrs. Bruce, wiping her forehead.

"Witchcraft!" echoed Mrs. Poyntz; "it does indeed look like it. An
amazing and portentous exhibition of animal spirits, and not to be
endured by the Proprieties. Where on earth can that young savage have
come from?"

"From savage lands," said I,--"so he says."

"Do not bring him here again," said Mrs. Poyntz. "He would soon turn the
Hill topsy-turvy. But how charming! I should like to see more of him,"
she added, in an under voice, "if he would call on me some morning, and
not in the presence of those for whose Proprieties I am responsible.
Jane mu