"Dere was feastin' and fightin',
De neighbours delightin',
And singin' and pratin',
And lots of the batin'
At Mulligan's weddin'.
Whack foldi dididdle follero!
Whack fol di di do!"

They were delighted with this little performance.
The doctor enjoyed it. "A capital song,
sir, and well sung. Thank you, sir."

The little man replied, with a bow, "I am
so glad you liked it."

"I dare say, sir, you have plenty more on
your list," said the doctor, " and would favour
us."

"No, no," Howard interposed; "that will do
very well. In fact, it is time to be thinking of
bed. What do you say, little man?"

"Whatever you please, papa." Then to Lucy:
"Did you like 'Mulligan's Weddin'?" Then
he began to laugh with a hearty child's laugh.
"So funny, you know—a wedding here; and
then, Mulligan's. Ha! ha! Isn't it now?"

"Getting late," said the doctor. " I must go
and look after my stars. This will be a great
night for observations. I shall search and
search until I read something good there for
Miss Lucy."

"And do you really do all this?" said the
captain.

"I have a regular observatory, a fine glass, a
meridian no less, and go regularly to work. Do
you ever see the Southern Counties' Times?

No, I should say not," added the doctor, laughing;
"the circulation is limited, and the matter
very local. Well, there is an astronomical
letter there every week from the present
speaker."

"I should like to see it very much," said the
captain; "I once had a little taste that way
myself."

"Put on something warm and come," said the
doctor. "It's only across the lake, and my
boatman is waiting."

The little man had been listening with distended
eyes. He put up his mouth to Lucy:
"Whisper," he said; "make them take me.
Oh, do!"

The doctor heard him. "And why not?" he
said. "We would not keep him long, and Captain
Hallam could bring him back, though it is
rather late."

The little man crowed with delight, and
clapped his hands. " Let us go at once!
Come!" And he began to pull at the doctor's
arm.

The father, who was at the other end of
the room, heard something of this, and came
over. "At this hour? Not to be thought
of, my dear child! Folly! I can't allow it.
Go to bed."

"Utter blankness and misery came into the
boy's face, and he hung down his head.

"My dear child," said his father, lifting him
till the child's face was on a level with his own,
"why, you would catch cold in your chest, and
take ill, and die; and then what would become
of poor papa? To-morrow we will drive over
to this gentleman's."

The boy gave a deep sigh of disappointment,
but of resignation. He looked back wistfully
towards the doctor, who embodied such exquisite
and ravishing charms—instruments that
turned, and screwed, and went up and down; an
inexhaustible source of entertainment. But he
turned to his father.

"Papa, I should not like to take cold, and
die, and leave you. So please to ring for Andy
to come and take me to bed."

At that moment the door opened, and a short
figure of a man, with a curious quaint head,
stood looking in. He peered round, and then,
without the least concern or consciousness of
any one's presence, called out, with a nod,

"Masther Fred, it's time now."

"Go," said his father. " There's Andy come
for you. Wish all these ladies and gentlemen
good night."

This ceremony the little man achieved with
courtly form, going round and putting out his
hand, and, in the ladies' instance, putting up
his cheek for the kiss which he seemed to know
would be inevitable. The father's turn came
last, and he lifted him up to give him a warm
embrace, and looked after him with rapt
fondness. Taking Andy's hand, the little man
walked away.

Then the clergyman and his wife and the rest
took their leave for the night. The captain
and the doctor came into the hall muffled in
great-coats. It was a fine clear night, and they
could see the stars without the aid of the
doctor's telescopes. The lake was at the back
of the house, and the doctor's own boat was
waiting—"My cab," he always called it.

But Colonel Howard and Mrs. Winter sat long
in the drawing-room after all the rest had gone,
talking, we may suppose, over some passages in
life, long gone by. The French clock on the
chimney-piece struck twelve, and half-past
twelve, and one. Lucy had not yet gone to
her bedroom, but fluttered nervously about
the hall and passages and the now ghostly
dining-room. For she knew very well what
troubled pictures were raised in the drawing–
room. Suddenly the door opened, and he came
out with a candle; as he saw her, he suddenly
started back, but recovered in a moment.

"Oh!" he said, "how strange, how wonderfully
strange! For the moment I thought—no
matter now—you ought to be asleep, my dear
child."

"I was waiting, dear Cousin Howard, to say
good-night to you."

Now ready, bound in cloth, price 5s. 6d.,

VOLUME THE SEVENTEENTH.