“Run home and tell your mother not to worry,” he said; “we will soon get track of her and see that she gets home safe.” Mother’s distress was pitiful. Tormenting herself and me, she rehearsed tales of Catholic funerals where they raced horses and got drunk--perhaps they would have a runaway--Kate might be thrown out--hurt, maybe killed--and perhaps we would all get the scarlet fever! When Father came home to supper, no trace had yet been found of the funeral train, though a man had driven to the cemetery--the mourners were either driving home by some other road, or had gone on to a near-by city. How the hours dragged! But the joy when Father came in bringing Kate, safe and sound, her elation over the experience only a little dampened by the fear of punishment! But she escaped it that time; and we all escaped the fever! Although I had had to drop the study of music in early girlhood, music continued to be an important part of our home life. Other boys and girls in our street used to gather round our organ in the winter evenings, or sit on the veranda in summer, and sing till we had to stop for hoarseness, the neighbours often calling to us for this and that favourite. “Gathering up the Sea Shells,” “Pass under the Rod,” “Jamie’s on the Stormy Sea,” “O, Fair Dove,” “We’d Better Bide a Wee,” “I’ll Be All Smiles To-night, Love,” “Then You’ll Remember Me,” “Juanita”--a heterogeneous repertoire, the list seems interminable. There were certain favourites we would get Father to sing--“Bonnie Doon,” “The Sword of Bunker Hill,” and “My Susanna”--songs inseparably linked with home and those happy days. I used to sing Father to sleep Sunday afternoons. No matter how many other songs I introduced, I always had to sing Longfellow’s “Bridge,” and “The Day Is Done.” I was annoyed if he asked for the latter before the day _was_ done. I liked best to sing it as the afternoon light began to fade and barely come in at the west window, just enough for me to trace the notes.