moment unable to recall the words he had repeated thrice a day for
the last thirty years.

The situation was awkward. At the back of the platform Mr. Rabling
rose to it. He had once a tenor voice of moderate calibre which he
was used to exert publicly in the days of Penny Readings. And the
word "Tyrolean" now suggested to him a national song which had long
reposed in his musical cabinet at home. He leaned forward, screened
his mouth with one hand and whispered--

"Sir Felix--"

"Hey?" Sir Felix whipped round.

"Did a' say" (with sudden and piercing jodel) "_Lul-ul-i-e-tee!
Lul-ul-i-ee! Lul-ul_--"

Sir Felix stamped his foot; and I think we all felt glad for Rabling
at that moment that he held his cottage on a ninety-nine years'
lease. But the lecture was spoilt before it began. The missionary
piled his statistics to the moon, and turned down the gas, and showed
us "The Child: What will he become?" But we took no interest in that
question. The question for us was, What exactly did that simple
Tyrolese shepherd say to Sir Felix? And that is just what we have
been asking each other for a week past.

Sir Felix recovered himself towards the close of the address, and at
the close acknowledged our vote of thanks in a pleasant little
speech--in which, however, his Tyrolean friend was not so much as
alluded to. It was pretty, too, to see the Little Knights of