gized for her dress, and affected shyness about
singing: Mr. Reginald stared at first, then let her know that, if she
was going to be affected like the girls that came to the Hall, he
should hate her, as he did them, and this he confirmed with a naughty
word.

Thus threatened, she came to book, and sang Ireland's melody in a low,
rich, sonorous voice; Reginald played a second; the harmony was so
perfect and strong that certain glass candelabra on the mantel-piece
rang loudly, and the drops vibrated. Then he made her sing the second,
and he took the treble with his violin; and he wound up by throwing in
a third part himself, a sort of countertenor, his own voice being much
higher than the woman's.

The tears stood in Rolfe's eyes. "Well," said he, "you have got the
soul of music, you two. I could listen to you 'From morn till noon,
from noon till dewy eve.'"

As they returned to Huntercombe, this mercurial youth went off at a
tangent, and Rolfe saw him no more.

He wrote in peace, and walked about between the heats.

Just before dinner-time the screams of women were heard hard by, and
the writer hurried to the place in time to see Mr. Basset hanging by
the shoulder from the branch of a tree, about twenty feet from the
ground.

Rolfe hallooed, as he ran, to the women, to fetch blankets to catch
him, and got under the tree, determined to try and catch him in his
arms, if necessary; but he encouraged the boy to hold on.

"All right, governor," said the boy, in a quavering voice.

It was very near the kitchen; maids and men poured out with blankets;
eight people held one, under Rolfe's direction, and down came Mr.
Bassett in a semicircle, and bounded up again off the blanket, like an
India-rubber ball.

His quick mind recovered courage the moment he touched wool.

"Crikey! that's jolly," said he; "give me another toss or two."

"Oh no! no!" said a good-natured maid. "Take an' put him to bed right
off, poor dear."

"Hold your tongue, ye bitch," said young hopeful; "if ye don't toss me,
I'll turn ye all off, as soon as ever the old un kicks the bucket."

Thus menaced, they thought it prudent to toss him; but, at the third
toss, he yelled out, "Oh! oh! oh! I'm all wet; it's blood! I'm dead!"

Then they examined, and found his arm was severely lacerated by an old
nail that had been driven into the tree, and it had torn the flesh in
his fall: he was covered with blood, the sight of which quenched his
manly spiri