an wrongheadedness itself."

"Exactly, sir. In fact now, Mr. Mayble," Reuben continued, more
impressively, and advancing a little closer still to the vicar, "father
there is a perfect figure o' wonder, in the way of being fond of music!"

The vicar drew back a little further, the tranter suddenly also standing
back a foot or two, to throw open the view of his father, and pointing to
him at the same time.

Old William moved uneasily in the large chair, and with a minute smile on
the mere edge of his lips, for good-manners, said he was indeed very fond
of tunes.

"Now, you see exactly how it is," Reuben continued, appealing to Mr.
Maybold's sense of justice by looking sideways into his eyes. The vicar
seemed to see how it was so well that the gratified tranter walked up to
him again with even vehement eagerness, so that his waistcoat-buttons
almost rubbed against the vicar's as he continued: "As to father, if you
or I, or any man or woman of the present generation, at the time music is
a-playing, was to shake your fist in father's face, as may be this way,
and say, 'Don't you be delighted with that music!'"--the tranter went
back to where Leaf was sitting, and held his fist so close to Leaf's face
that the latter pressed his head back against the wall: "All right, Leaf,
my sonny, I won't hurt you; 'tis just to show my meaning to Mr.
Mayble.--As I was saying, if you or I, or any man, was to shake your fist
in father's face this way, and say, 'William, your life or your music!'
he'd say, 'My life!' Now that's father's nature all over; and you see,
sir, it must hurt the feelings of a man of that kind for him and his bass-
viol to be done away wi' neck and crop."

The tranter went back to the vicar's front and again looked earnestly at
his face.

"True, true, Dewy," Mr. Maybold answered, trying to withdraw his head and
shoulders without moving his feet; but finding this impracticable, edging
back another inch. These frequent retreats had at last jammed Mr.
Maybold between his easy-chair and the edge of the table.

And at the moment of the announcement of the choir, Mr. Maybold had just
re-dipped the pen he was using; at their entry, instead of wiping it, he
had laid it on the table with the nib overhanging. At the last retreat
his coat-tails came in contact with the pen, and down it rolled, first
against the back of the chair, thence turning a summersault into the
seat, thence falling to the floor with a rattle.