heart?"

Pedgift Junior's peace-making concertina still flourished and groaned in
the minor key.

"Well, what _did_ the moon do?" asked Allan, in despair.

"What the moon _ought_ to have done, sir, or Tom Moore wouldn't have
written it so," rejoined Mrs. Pentecost. "'The moon hid her light from
the heaven that night, and wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's
shame!' I wish that young man would leave off playing," added Mrs.
Pentecost, venting her rising irritation on Gustus Junior. "I've had
enough of him--he tickles my ears."

"Proud, I'm sure, ma'am," said the unblushing Pedgift. "The whole
science of music consists in tickling the ears."

"We seem to be drifting into a sort of argument," remarked Major Milroy,
placidly. "Wouldn't it be better if Mr. Armadale went on with his song?"

"Do go on, Mr. Armadale!" added the major's daughter. "Do go on, Mr.
Pedgift!"

"One of them doesn't know the words, and the other doesn't know the
music," said Mrs. Pentecost. "Let them go on if they can!"

"Sorry to disappoint you, ma'am," said Pedgift Junior; "I'm ready to go
on myself to any extent. Now, Mr. Armadale!"

Allan opened his lips to take up the unfinished melody where he had last
left it. Before he could utter a note, the curate suddenly rose, with a
ghastly face, and a hand pressed convulsively over the middle region of
his waistcoat.

"What's the matter?" cried the whole boating party in chorus.

"I am exceedingly unwell," said the Reverend Samuel Pentecost. The boat
was instantly in a state of confusion. "Eveleen's Bower" expired on
Allan's lips, and even the irrepressible concertina of Pedgift
was silenced at last. The alarm proved to be quite needless. Mrs.
Pentecost's son possessed a mother, and that mother had a bag. In
two seconds the art of medicine occupied the place left vacant in the
attention of the company by the art of music.

"Rub it gently, Sammy," said Mrs. Pentecost. "I'll get out the bottles
and give you a dose. It's his poor stomach, major. Hold my trumpet,
somebody--and stop the boat. You take that bottle, Neelie, my dear; and
you take this one, Mr. Armadale; and give them to me as I want them.
Ah, poor dear, I know what's the matter with him! Want of power _here_,
major--cold, acid, and flabby. Ginger to warm him; soda to correct him;
sal volatile to hold him up. There, Sammy! drink it before it settles;
and then go and lie down, my dear, in that dog-kennel of a place they
call the