voice, I asked, " Anything occurred, Uncle
Curriehill?"

"This has occurred, sir," he answered in a
voice of deep anger—"just step with me into
the study. This has occurred, sir. I was in
my music-shop to-day, and they showed me a
new instrument, sir, and asked me to try it,
and I did try it, and played that—that thing—
that licentious drinking-thing that you brought
into this virtuous house. And a gentleman at
the end of the shop called out, ' Why that's the
air in the——' What d'ye mean, sir? I thought
I'd have dropped on the ground. How dare you
introduce that corrupt, filthy stuff into this
house—that noisome, unholy 'Traviata'?"

He used the figure of personification here
with such force and graphic power that I
actually looked round to see if there was any
person answering the description present. He
went on: " You are not fit for this place. You
have poisoned the air. You are morally corrupt,
sir. You had better go home at once." I
answered with some penitence and pride mixed,
that I was very sorry, but would not trespass
on his hospitality longer.

That night we had no music, but sat moody
and solitary. The hours dragged on, and we
went to the " exercises," which it seemed to
me he delivered with peculiar and special
acerbity.

So went by several days, and not a single
scrape was heard in the house. He scarcely spoke
to me. At last one morning in a sort of
defiant way, as who should say, " I am not bound
to debar myself from amusement in my own
house to satisfy your sulks," he took his violin and
began to play Corelli—the "Gigas," then the
"Corantos," then the "Sarabandas," and finally
well through to the "Ye Follia." (Even at that
moment of dejection, when my prospects seemed
dashed for ever, I found myself speculating as
to what the admirable Arcangelo meant by his
"Ye Follia." ) Uncle Curriehill warmed to his
work, played other tunes, and in a few minutes
—could I believe my ears?—had glided into
the wicked drinking-song out of the Trav——
No matter, he stopped in a moment, catching
himself in the act, blushed like a girl, gave an
impatient " Pish!" threw down his violin, then
laughed. He came over to me with his hand
out. " My dear boy," he said, " there is no use
carrying it on. I am miserable without my tunes.
I am like a fellow that is in love with some
low girl. What can I do? There is no harm in
it after all, though the Rev. Mr. McCorkup
turns up his eyes, and says it will light up in us
all the—no matter. I don't believe him though;
I mean, I don't think he can know."

"My dear uncle," I said with enthusiasm,
"Verdi's music is now established all over the
world. Kings, courts, palaces, lawyers, priests,
and parsons delight in it, revel in it. It is the
music of the day. It is driving out every other
music. And as for the Trav—— , I mean this
particular production—I could show you something
that would astound you. It is being played now."

He started. "Now!"

"Yes," I said, "every night to houses
crammed to the roof. The Voltarelli, the lovely
little creature, plays the part of the Trav—— , I
mean, of the what d'ye call 'em. The Queen
and all the royal family, the ministers of state,
the two Houses of Parliament, together with
their wives and daughters, go indiscriminately."

He burst out warmly, " For shame, sir. I
don't believe you. This is an atrocious libel.
You are an abandoned fellow. Go away!"

"As I live," I said, " Uncle Curriehill, I
am serious. Look here. The Morning Plush
of yesterday—list of the company—at the
Royal Italian Opera—fashionables. The most
noble the Marchioness of Killfeathers and the
Honourable Miss Downies (2), Lord Tyburn,
Viscount and Viscountess Ketchup—and listen
to this, uncle," I said, " what do you say to
this?—Lady Catherine Macgregor and the Miss
Macgregors!"

It came on him like a shot. For Lady
Catherine was a shining light at our synagogue;
had exercises herself; maintained a cold blue
ascetical rule in Scotland; only lately had
been seduced to London by the noble family
of Tilbury's, who were to show them good
society. What was the result? They were
"fallen women," so the Reverend Mr.
McCorkup called them.

My uncle groaned, yet the effect on him
was not what it was to be on Mr. McCorkup.
It was pure wonder and astonishment, and not
at all to the prejudice of the " fallen women."
He had such a nigh opinion of the sanctity of
Lady Catherine, that it seemed to him not so
much that she had sunk by going, as that there
must have been a mistake about the nature
of the thing itself. I saw his indecision, and
struck in with a fresh blow.

"O, I have seen her name very often. She
goes to everything. Never misses anything.
I see the—the—the——" I stopped.

"La Traviata," said my uncle, absently.

"Yes," I went on, "is fixed for to-night.
She will be there again with the Queen and
royal family—the Prince of Wales."

"Of course," he said, testily, " he is included
in the royal family. Very odd, very, very
odd."

He went away ruminating. It was now
about four. He went up to his room and shut
himself in, perhaps for the private exercises.
Towards six he suddenly came down.

"I have to go out," he said, " my dear boy,
to meet a friend. I shall have business in the
evening, and shall very likely dine at a chop
house."

"Dine at a chop house!" I repeated,
astounded.

"Yes. So make yourself as comfortable as
you can without me."

When he was gone, I repeated to myself,
"Dine at a chop house!" I could not make it
out. Suddenly a little bill on the chimney-
piece met my eye. It was to the effect that on
that evening the " REV. WILKINS HUBBARD,"
who had spent seven or eight years in the