“Ma-ah ol’ missus said to me (Gwan to git a-home bime by) “Whe-en she died she’d set me free (Gwan to git a-home bime by) Oh dat watermiyun (Lamb er goodness you must die) I’se gwan fer to jine de cont’aban’ chillun (Gwan ter git a-home bime by). “Whe-en she died she died so po’ (Gwan ter git a-home bime by). She lef’ me wuss’n I was befo’ (Gwan ter git a-home bime by).” They had started the chorus of the second verse, throwing themselves into it with all the abandon of bobolinks—black bobolinks—when we came to a turn in the road and heard a clatter of hoofs and a smart turn-out belonging to summer people from Egerton drove by. I recognized in the ladies who were leaning languidly back on the cushioned seats two New Yorkers whom we met at a tea last winter and who seemed to take an interest in Ethel, so much so that I told her at the time that if she had had any social ambitions I was sure that here were stepping stones. But I am quite sure that the stepping stones marveled greatly at the spectacle and the sounds we presented. Driving a chorus out. We looked back after we had passed and found that they were rude enough to be looking at us. “Do you care, Ethel?” “Well, I wish they had been some one else. It must have looked silly.” “Not at all. It looks perfectly business-like. Or it will look so later. When Mrs. Guernsea and her daughter see the announcements of the concert they will realize that we were doing a little preliminary advertising to whet the appetites of the populace. They will come to the concert. Mark my words.” As we were now within sight of the houses of the village, I told James that I guessed we’d better postpone further melody until our return, as we might be taken for a circus, rather than a concert, and the rest of the way was made in silence. While Ethel was buying clothes for Minerva, I, by the advice of James, sought out Deacon Fotherby of the Second Congregational Church. He presided over the destinies of a shoestore, and when I went in he was trying to force a number eight shoe on a number nine foot of a Cinderella of uncertain age, whose face was red—from his exertions. I waited patiently about until the good deacon got a larger shoe, called it a number seven (may the recording angel pardon him) and slipped it on the foot of Cinderella, who departed simpering. He came up to me in a business-like way. “Is this Deacon Fotherby?”