that James had a natural genius for this sort of
matters. Even when emerging from the meeting house in full glory, with
flute and psalm book under his arm, he would stop to ask her how she
did; and if it was cold weather, he would carry her foot stove all the
way home from meeting, discoursing upon the sermon, and other serious
matters, as Aunt Sally observed, "in the pleasantest, prettiest way that
ever ye see." This flute was one of the crying sins of James in the eyes
of Uncle Lot. James was particularly fond of it, because he had learned
to play on it by intuition; and on the decease of the old pitchpipe,
which was slain by a fall from the gallery, he took the liberty to
introduce the flute in its place. For this, and other sins, and for the
good reasons above named, Uncle Lot's countenance was not towards James,
neither could he be moved to him-ward by any manner of means.

To all Aunt Sally's good words and kind speeches, he had only to say
that "he didn't like him; that he hated to see him a' manifesting and
glorifying there in the front gallery Sundays, and a' acting every where
as if he was master of all: he didn't like it, and he wouldn't." But our
hero was no whit cast down or discomfited by the malcontent aspect of
Uncle Lot. On the contrary, when report was made to him of divers of his
hard speeches, he only shrugged his shoulders, with a very satisfied
air, and remarked that "he knew a thing or two for all that."

"Why, James," said his companion and chief counsellor, "do you think
Grace likes you?"

"I don't know," said our hero, with a comfortable appearance of
certainty.

"But you can't get her, James, if Uncle Lot is cross about it."

"Fudge! I can make Uncle Lot like me if I have a mind to try."

"Well then, Jim, you'll have to give up that flute of yours, I tell you
now."

"Fa, sol, la--I can make him like me and my flute too."

"Why, how will you do it?"

"O, I'll work it," said our hero.

"Well, Jim, I tell you now, you don't know Uncle Lot if you say so; for
he is just the _settest_ critter in his way that ever you saw."

"I _do_ know Uncle Lot, though, better than most folks; he is no more
cross than I am; and as to his being _set_, you have nothing to do but
make him think he is in his own way when he is in yours--that is all."

"Well," said the other, "but you see I don't believe it."

"And I'll bet you a gray squirrel that I'll go there this very evening,
and get him to like me