The dancing _was_ soon over, and the mother's threat put into execution. Miss Riley was led over to the piano by the widow, with the usual protestations that she was hoarse. It took some time to get the piano ready, for an extensive clearance was to be made from it of cups and saucers, and half-empty glasses of negus, before it could be opened; then, after various thrummings and hummings and hawings, the "Bewildhered Maid" made her appearance in the wildest possible manner, and the final shriek was quite worthy of a maniac. Loud applause followed, and the wriggling Miss Riley was led from the piano by James Reddy, who had stood at the back of her chair, swaying backward and forward to the music, with a maudlin expression of sentiment on his face, and a suppressed exclamation of "B-u-tiful!" after every extra shout from the young lady. Growling listened with an expression of as much dissatisfaction as if he had been drinking weak punch. "I see you don't like that," said the widow to him, under her breath; "ah, you're too hard, doctor--consider she sung out of good-nature." "I don't know if it was out of good-nature," said he; "but I am sure it was out of tune." [Illustration: The Widow Flanagan's Party] James Reddy led back Miss Riley to her mamma, who was much delighted with the open manifestations of "the poet's" admiration. "She ought to be proud, sir, of your _conjunction_, I'm sure. A poet like you, sir!--what beautiful rhymes them wor you did on the 'lection." "A trifle, ma'am--a mere trifle--a little occasional thing." "Oh! but them two beautiful lines-- "We tread the land that bore us Our green flag glitters o'er us!" "_They_ are only a quotation, ma'am," said Reddy. "Oh, like every man of true genius, sir, you try and undervalue your own work; but call them lines what you like, to my taste they are the most beautiful lines in the thing you done." Reddy did not know what to answer, and his confusion was increased by catching old Growling's eye, who was chuckling at the _mal-a-propos_ speech of the flourishing Mrs. Riley. "Don't you sing yourself, sir?" said that lady. "To be sure he does," cried the Widow Flanagan; "and he must give us one of his own." "Oh!" "No excuses; now, James!" "Where's Duggan?" inquired the poetaster, affectedly; "I told him to be here to accompany me." "I attend your muse, sir," said a miserable structure of skin and bone, advancing with a low bow and obsequious smile: this was the poor music-master, who set Reddy's rhymes to music as bad, and danced attendance on him everywhere. The music-master fumbled over a hackneyed prelude to show his command of the instrument. Miss Riley whispered to her mamma that it was out of one of her first books of lessons. Mrs. Flanagan, with a seductive smirk, asked, "what he was going to give them?" The poet replied, "a little thing of his own--'Rosalie; or, the Broken Heart,'--sentimental, but rather sad."