“This is criticism; a science; I prefer art; play me another tune, my bold Bohemian.” “Ah, I thought I should catch ye with my fiddle. You're not such a muff as the others, old 'un, not by a long chalk. Hang me if I won't give ye 'Ireland's music,' and I've sworn never to waste that on a fool.” He played the old Irish air so simply and tunably that Rolfe leaned back in his chair, with half closed eyes, in soft voluptuous ecstasy. The youngster watched him with his coal-black eye. “I like you,” said he, “better than I thought I should, a precious sight.” “Highly flattered.” “Come with me, and hear my nurse sing it.” “What, and leave my novel?” “Oh, bother your novel.” “And so I will. That will be tit for tat; it has bothered me. Lead on, Bohemian bold.” The boy took him, over hedge and ditch, the short-cut to Meyrick's farm; and caught Mrs. Meyrick, and said she must sing “Ireland's music” to Rolfe the writer. Mrs. Meyrick apologized for her dress, and affected shyness about singing: Mr. Reginald stared at first, then let her know that, if she was going to be affected like the girls that came to the Hall, he should hate her, as he did them, and this he confirmed with a naughty word. Thus threatened, she came to book, and sang Ireland's melody in a low, rich, sonorous voice; Reginald played a second; the harmony was so perfect and strong that certain glass candelabra on the mantel-piece rang loudly, and the drops vibrated. Then he made her sing the second, and he took the treble with his violin; and he wound up by throwing in a third part himself, a sort of countertenor, his own voice being much higher than the woman's. The tears stood in Rolfe's eyes. “Well,” said he, “you have got the soul of music, you two. I could listen to you 'From morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve.'” As they returned to Huntercombe, this mercurial youth went off at a tangent, and Rolfe saw him no more. He wrote in peace, and walked about between the heats. Just before dinner-time the screams of women were heard hard by, and the writer hurried to the place in time to see Mr. Basset hanging by the shoulder from the branch of a tree, about twenty feet from the ground. Rolfe hallooed, as he ran, to the women, to fetch blankets to catch him, and got under the tree, determined to try and catch him in his arms, if necessary; but he encouraged the boy to hold on. “All right, governor,” said the boy, in a quavering voice. It was very near the kitchen; maids and men poured out with blankets; eight people held one, under Rolfe's direction, and down came Mr. Bassett in a semicircle, and bounded up again off the blanket, like an India-rubber ball. His quick mind recovered courage the moment he touched wool. “Crikey! that's jolly,” said he; “give me another toss or two.” “Oh no! no!” said a good-natured maid. “Take an' put him to bed right off, poor dear.”