from his communion. Ned was a lively, thoughtless, light-hearted
son of the soil, who was very slow to understand sorrows of any
kind; and least of all, those which lie in the fancy of a dreaming
and a doubtful lover. At this moment, when the possession of a new
violin absorbed all his thoughts, his mind was particularly obtuse
on the subject of sentimental grievances, and the almost voluptuous
delight which filled his eyes when William entered his chamber,
entirely prevented him from seeing the heavy shadow which overhung
the brows of the latter.

"What, back again, William? Why, you're as changeable as the last
suit of a green lizard. When I asked you to stop, and hear me play
'Cross-possum,' and 'Criss-cross,' off you went without giving me
a civil answer. I've a mind now to put up the fiddle and send your
ears to bed supperless. How would you like that, old fellow? but
I'll be good-natured. You shall have it, though you don't deserve
it; she's in prime tune, and the tones--only hear that, Bill--there.
Isn't she delicious?"

And as the inconsiderate cousin poured out his warmest eulogy of the
favorite instrument, his right hand flourished the bow in air, in
a style that would have cheered the heart of Jean Crapaud himself,
and then brought it over the cat-gut in a grand crash, that sounded
as harshly in the ears of his morbid visitor, as if the two worlds
had suddenly come together with steam-engine velocity. He clapped
his hands upon the invaded organs, and with something like horror
in his voice, cried out his expostulations.

"For heaven's sake, Ned, don't stun a body with your noise."