He threw the pistol from him, exploded himself, like a shell, in twenty different fragments of oaths, and left me the kitchen garden and the pistol, which latter I took a little practice with myself, for the sake of emptying two of the chambers still charged. Whether Henry Armstrong even knew how to fire a pistol, I did not know; but I dare say he was a first-rate shot, if I only had known it. I sent the pistol up to Mr. Percy's room by the hand of Mr. Beeves; but I never heard him practising any more. The next night the curate was to read us another story. The time arrived, and with it all our company, except Harry. Indeed it was a marvel that he had been able to attend so often as he had attended. I presume the severe weather had by this time added to his sick-list. Although I fear the chief end of our readings was not so fully attained as hitherto, or, in other words, that Adela did not enjoy the evening so much as usual, I will yet record all with my usual faithfulness. The curate and his wife were a little late, and when they arrived, they found us waiting for them in music. As soon as they entered, Adela rose from the piano. "Do go on, Miss Cathcart," said the curate. "I had just finished," she replied. "Then, if you will allow me, I will sing a song first, which I think will act as an antidote to those sentimental ones which we had at my house, and of which Mrs. Cathcart did not approve." "Thank you," said everybody, Mrs. Cathcart included. Whereupon the curate sang: "I am content. In trumpet-tones, My song, let people know. And many a mighty man, with throne And sceptre, is not so. And if he is, I joyful cry, Why then, he's just the same as I. The Mogul's gold, the Sultan's show-- His bliss, supreme too soon, Who, lord of all the world below, Looked up unto the moon-- I would not pick it up--all that Is only fit for laughing at. My motto is--_Content with this_. Gold-place--I prize not such. That which I have, my measure is; Wise men desire not much. Men wish and wish, and have their will, And wish again, as hungry still. And gold and honour are besides A very brittle glass; And Time, in his unresting tides, Makes all things change and pass; Turns riches to a beggar's dole; Sets glory's race an infant's goal. Be noble--that is more than wealth; Do right--that's more than place; Then in the spirit there is health, And gladness in the face; Then thou art with thyself at one, And, no man hating, fearest none. I am content. In trumpet-tones, My song, let people know. And many a mighty man, with throne And sceptre, is not so. And if he is, I joyful cry, Why then, he's just the same as I." "Is that one of your own, Mr. Armstrong?" asked the colonel. "It is, like most of those you have heard from me and my brother, only a translation."