is not too late for you. Mark
the intonation. And now," he continued, "what are we to give them?"

"Are you going to sing?" asked Stubbs.

"I am a troubadour," replied Leon. "I claim a welcome by and for my art.
If I were a banker, could I do as much?"

"Well, you wouldn't need, you know," answered the undergraduate.

"Egad," said Leon, "but that's true. Elvira, that is true."

"Of course it is," she replied. "Did you not know it?"

"My dear," answered Leon impressively, "I know nothing but what is
agreeable. Even my knowledge of life is a work of art superiorly
composed. But what are we to give them? It should be something
appropriate."

Visions of "Let dogs delight" passed through the under-graduate's mind;
but it occurred to him that the poetry was English and that he did not
know the air. Hence he contributed no suggestion.

"Something about our houselessness," said Elvira.

"I have it," cried Leon. And he broke forth into a song of Pierre
Dupont's:--

"Savez-vous ou gite
Mai, ce joli mois?"

Elvira joined in; so did Stubbs, with a good ear and voice, but an
imperfect acquaintance with the music. Leon and the guitar were equal to
the situation. The actor dispensed his throat-notes with prodigality and
enthusiasm; and, as he looked up to heaven in his heroic way, tossing
the black ringlets, it seemed to him that the very stars contributed a
dumb applause to his efforts, and the universe lent him its silence for
a chorus. That is one of the best features of the heavenly bodies, that
they belong to everybody in particular; and a man like Leon, a chronic
Endymion who managed to get along without encouragement, is always the
world's centre for himself.

He alone--and it is to be noted, he was the worst singer of the
three--took the music seriously to heart, and judged the serenade from a
high artistic point of view. Elvira, on the other hand, was preoccupied
about their reception; and as for Stubbs, he considered the whole affair
in the light of a broad joke.

"Know you the lair of May, the lovely month?" went the three voices in
the turnip-field.

The inhabitants were plainly fluttered; the light moved to and fro,
strengthening in one window, paling in another; and then the door was
thrown open, and a man in a blouse appeared on the threshold carrying a
lamp. He was a powerful young fellow, with bewildered hair and beard,
wearing his neck open; his blouse was stained with oil-colours in a
harlequ