Tom groaned, for, with a face kind and bright, he was yet no beauty;
while if Surrey had one crowning gift in this day of fast youths and
self-satisfied Young America, it was that of modesty with regard to
himself and any gifts and graces nature had blessed him withal.

"Clara has a nice voice."

"Very nice."

"She is to sing, do you know?"

"I know."

"Do you know when?"

No reply.

"She sings the next piece. Are you ready to listen?"

"Ready."

"Good Lord!" cried Tom, in despair, "the fellow has lost his wits. He
has turned parrot; he has done nothing but repeat my words for me since
he sat here. He's an echo."

"Echo of nothingness?" queried the parrot, smilingly.

"Ah, you've come to yourself, have you? Capital! now stay awake. There's
Clara to sing directly, and you are to cheer her, and look as if you
enjoyed it, and throw her that bouquet when I tell you, and let her