ng way. A quarter of an hour is my limit of time; and, I
am proud to say, some of them (mostly the women) do to a certain extent
keep awake. If you and the other ladies decide to honor me, it is
needless to say you shall have one of my grand efforts. What will be
the effect on my unfortunate flock remains to be seen. I will have
the church brushed up, and luncheon of course at the parsonage. Beans,
bacon, and beer--I haven't got anything else in the house. Are you rich?
I hope not!"

"I suspect I am quite as poor as you are, Mr. Mirabel."

"I am delighted to hear it. (More of my indiscretion!) Our poverty is
another bond between us."

Before he could enlarge on this text, the breakfast bell rang.

He gave Emily his arm, quite satisfied with the result of the morning's
talk. In speaking seriously to her on the previous night, he had
committed the mistake of speaking too soon. To amend this false step,
and to recover his position in Emily's estimation, had been his
object in view--and it had been successfully accomplished. At the
breakfast-table that morning, the companionable clergyman was more
amusing than ever.

The meal being over, the company dispersed as usual--with the one
exception of Mirabel. Without any apparent reason, he kept his place at
the table. Mr. Wyvil, the most courteous and considerate of men, felt it
an attention due to his guest not to leave the room first. All that he
could venture to do was to give a little hint. "Have you any plans for
the morning?" he asked.

"I have a plan that depends entirely on yourself," Mirabel answered;
"and I am afraid of being as indiscreet as usual, if I mention it. Your
charming daughter tells me you play on the violin."

Modest Mr. Wyvil looked confused. "I hope you have not been annoyed," he
said; "I practice in a distant room so that nobody may hear me."

"My dear sir, I am eager to hear you! Music is my passion; and the
violin is my favorite instrument."

Mr. Wyvil led the way to his room, positively blushing with pleasure.
Since the death of his wife he had been sadly in want of a little
encouragement. His daughters and his friends were careful--over-careful,
as he thought--of intruding on him in his hours of practice. And, sad to
say, his daughters and his friends were, from a musical point of view,
perfectly right.

Literature has hardly paid sufficient attention to a social phenomenon
of a singularly perplexing kind. We hear enough, and more than e