n at the
tea-table things were not like last evening. Philip entered into no
discussions, made no special attempts to amuse anybody, attended to his
duties in the unconscious way of one with whom they have become second
nature, and talked only so much as politeness required. Mrs. Barclay
looked at Lois, but could tell nothing from the grave face there.
Always on Sunday evenings it had a very fair, sweet gravity.

The rest of the time, after tea, was spent in making music. It had
become a usual Sunday evening entertainment. Mrs. Barclay played, and
she and the two girls sang. It was all sacred music, of course, varied
exceedingly, however, by the various tastes of the family. Old hymn and
psaulm tunes were what Mrs. Armadale liked; and those generally came
first; then the girls had more modern pieces, and with those Mrs.
Barclay interwove an anthem or a chant now and then. Madge and Lois
both had good voices and good natural taste and feeling; and Mrs.
Barclay's instructions had been eagerly received. This evening Philip
joined the choir; and Charity declared it was "better'n they could do
in the Episcopal church."

"Do they have the best singing in the Episcopal church?" asked Philip
absently.

"Well, they set up to; and you see they give more time to it. Our folks
won't practise."

"I don't care how folk's voices sound, if their hearts _are_ in it,"
said Mrs. Armadale.

"But you may notice, voices sound better if hearts are in it," said
Dillwyn. "That made a large part of the beauty of our concert this
evening."

"Was your'n in it?" asked Mrs. Armadale abruptly.

"My heart? In the words? I am afraid I must own it was not, in the way
you mean, madam. If I must answer truth."

"Don't you always speak truth?"

"I believe I may say, that _is_ my habit," Philip answered, smiling.

"Then, do you think you ought to sing sech words, if you don't mean
'em?"

The question looks abrupt, on paper. It did not sound equally so.
Something of earnest wistfulness there was in the old lady's look and
manner, a touch of solemnity in her voice, which made the gentleman
forgive her on the spot. He sat down beside her.

"Would you bid me not join in singing such words, then?"

"It's not my place to bid or forbid. But you can judge for yourself. Do
you set much valley on professions that mean nothing?"

"I made no professions."

"Ain't it professin', when you say what the hymns say?"

"If you will forgive me--I did not