Doesto yer?--hooisht!" But he'd mistaan his mon, Mr. Penrose, for
Enoch nobbud stopped short to say, "Thee go on with thi
conductin'. If hoo'll sing I'll play." And hoo did sing an' o'.
An' Enoch welly blew his lips off wi' playin', I con tell thi.
But, somehaa or other, hoo never cared to come and sing i' these
parts after, and they never geet Enoch to tak' th' piccolo
accompaniment agen to "How beautiful are th' feet."'

'Nowe, an' they never will. I somehaa think I had summat to do wi'
spoilin' th' beauty of "their feet" that neet, Mr. Penrose, though
I've played in mony a oratory (oratorio) sin' then, an' mean to do
agen.'

After tea Enoch took Mr. Penrose for a stroll over the moors. The
sun was westering, and cool airs crept up from distant wilds,
playing softly as they swept among the long grasses, and leading
Enoch to say to Mr. Penrose, 'Theer's music for yo'.' The great
hills threw miles of shadow, and masses of fleecy clouds slowly
crossed the deepening blue like white galleons on a sapphire sea.
Along the crests of the far-off hills mystic colours were
mingling, deepening, and fading away--the tremulous drapery woven
by angel hands, behind which the bridegroom of day was hiding his
splendour and his strength. Soft herbage yielded to the tread, and
warm stretches of peaty soil lay like bars across the green and
gray and gold of what seemed to Mr. Penrose the shoreless waste of
moor. On distant hills stood lone farmsteads, their little windows
glowing with the lingering beams of the setting sun; the low of
kine, the bay of dog, and the shout of shepherd, softened into
sweetest sounds as they travelled from far along the wings of the
evening wind. It was the hour when Nature rests, and when man