"Yes,--yes,--I dare say," says the poor vicar, who is somewhat _distrait_, and, to say the truth, a little miserable about the whole undertaking. "Now, there is Sarah Martin. Do you think she will pull through? On her I build all my hopes; but some inward doubt about her oppresses me. Willie Bealman has a capital tenor; but he and Sarah don't speak,--she refused him, I think,--and so they won't sing their duet together. Then there is Lizzie Bealman, she might stand to me; but she loses her voice when nervous, and has a most uncomfortable trick of giggling when in the least excited." "Put her in the background," says Clarissa. "She is of no use, except in a chorus." "Her people wouldn't stand it. They look upon her as a rising prima donna. I assure you, my dear Clarissa," says the vicar, furtively wiping his brow, "only for the sin of it, there are moments when I could wish myself beneath the sod. The incessant worry is more than I can bear!" "Oh, now, don't say that," says Miss Peyton, patting his arm lovingly. "It will be a great success, this concert: I know, I feel it will!" CHAPTER XV. "As sweet and musical As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair; And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony."--_Love's Labor's Lost._ It is night, and the 4th of February. Already is Pullingham turning out, dressed in its very Sunday best, and is wending its way towards the school-house, where the concert is to be held. For the last week it has been deep in the mysteries of solos, duets, and trios. Indeed, there is hardly a family in the whole village that does not know by heart every mortal thing that is going to be sung, each family possessing a son or a daughter engaged in the common work, and belonging to the choir; yet nevertheless it now goes in a body to the school-house, as possessed with curiosity as though music is an art unknown to them, and the piping of small trebles a thing unheard of. Nothing can exceed the excitement and jealousy that reign everywhere,--principally in the hearts of Mr. Leatham's followers, who hope wildly, but secretly, that failure may be the only crop their rivals may reap. It is a heavenly night, for which the Vicar is devoutly thankful. The moon is riding high in the dark-blue dome; the stars are all alight; the air, swift and keen, rushes along the high-roads, sweeping all before it. There is no sign of rain; the sky above, "star-inwrought," shows promise of many fair to-morrows. "There is no excuse for their non-attendance," murmurs the vicar to himself, as he stands inside the school-house door, wording his thought, as he might, were he thinking of the collecting together of his flock on Easter Sunday or to the Holy Communion. "Vast night comes noiselessly up the eastern slope, And so the eternal chase goes round the world."