cloaks, to scare the French if they should invade. Zeb's gaze, amid the
turmoil of sound, hovered around one such cloak, rested on a slim back
resolutely turned to him, and a jealous bonnet, wandered to the bald
scalp of Farmer Tresidder beside it, returned to Calvin Qke's sawing
elbow and the long neck of Elias Sweetland bulging with the _fortissimo_
of "O ye winds of God," then fluttered back to the red cloak.

These vagaries were arrested by three words from the mouth of Old Zeb,
screwed sideways over his fiddle.

"Time--ye sawny!"

Young Zeb started, puffed out his cheeks, and blew a shriller note.
During the rest of the canticle his eyes were glued to the score, and
seemed on the point of leaving their sockets with the vigour of the
performance.

"Sooner thee'st married the better for us, my son," commented his father
at the close; "else farewell to psa'mody!"

But Young Zeb did not reply. In fact, what remained of the peppermint
lozenge had somehow jolted into his windpipe, and kept him occupied with
the earlier symptoms of strangulation.

His facial contortions, though of the liveliest, were unaccompanied by
sound, and, therefore, unheeded. The crowder, with his eyes
contemplatively fastened on the capital of a distant pillar, was
pursuing a train of reflection upon Church music; and the others
regarded the crowder.