when I've felt anything smart so."

"Then don't be so horrid," returns the pensive girl, taking a seat
before him upon the rustic settee, and abstractedly arranging her dress
so that only two-thirds of a gaiter-boot can be seen.

Munching cloves, the aroma of which ladens the air all around him, Mr.
BUMSTEAD contemplates her with a calmness which would be enthralling,
but for the nervous twisting of his features under the torments of a
singularly adhesive fly.

"I have come, dear," he observes, slowly, "to know how soon you will be
ready for me to give you your next music-lesson?"

"I prefer that you would not call me your 'dear,'" was the chilling
answer.

The organist thinks for a moment, and then nods his head intelligently.
"You are right," he says, gravely, "--there _might_ be somebody
listening who could not enter into our real feelings. And now, how about
those music-lessons?"

"I don't want any more, thank you," says FLORA, coldly. "While we are
all in mourning for our poor, dear absurd EDDY, it seems like a
perfectly ridiculous mockery to be practicing the scales."

Fanning himself with his straw hat, Mr. BUMSTEAD shakes his bushy head
several times. "You do not discriminate sufficiently," he replies.
"There are kinds of music which, when performed rapidly upon the violin,
fife, or kettle-drum, certainly fill the mind with sentiments