Bertha looked at him, remembering her dream that they should sit at the piano together in the evening and play for hour after hour: as a matter of fact, he had always refused to budge from his chair and had gone to sleep regularly. “My idea of music is like Dr. Johnson’s,” said Edward, looking round for approval. “Is Saul also among the prophets?” murmured Bertha. “When I hear a difficult piece I wish it was impossible.” “You forget, dear,” said Bertha, smiling sweetly, “that Dr. Johnson was a very ill-mannered old man whom dear Fanny would not have allowed in her drawing-room for one minute.” “You sing now, Edward,” said Miss Glover; “we’ve not heard you for ever so long.” “Oh, bless you,” he retorted, “my singing’s too old fashioned. My songs have all got a tune in them and some feeling--they’re only fit for the kitchen.” “Oh, please give us _Ben Bolt_,” said Miss Hancock, “we’re all so fond of it.” Edward’s repertory was limited, and every one knew his songs by heart. “Anything to oblige,” he said. He was, as a matter of fact, fond of singing, and applause was always grateful to his ears. “Shall I accompany you, dear?” said Bertha. “_Oh! don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,_ _Sweet Alice with hai-air so brow-own;_ _She wept with delight when you gave her a smile,_ _And trembled with fe-ar at your frown._” Once upon a time Bertha had found a subtle charm in these pleasing sentiments and in the honest melody which adorned them; but it was not to be wondered if constant repetition had left her a little callous. Edward sang the ditty with a simple, homely style--which is the same as saying, with no style at all--and he employed therein much pathos. But Bertha’s spirit was not forgiving, she owed him some return for the gratuitous attack on her playing; and the idea came to her to improve upon the accompaniment with little trills and flourishes which amused her immensely, but quite disconcerted her husband. Finally, just when his voice was growing flat with emotion over the gray-haired schoolmaster who had died, she wove in the strains of the _Blue Bells of Scotland_ and _God Save the Queen_, so that Edward broke down. For once his even temper was disturbed. “I say, I can’t sing if you go playing the fool. You spoil the whole thing.” “I’m very sorry,” laughed Bertha. “I forgot what I was doing. Let’s begin all over again.” “No, I’m not going to sing any more. You spoil the whole thing.” “Mrs. Craddock has no heart,” said Miss Hancock. “I don’t think it’s fair to laugh at an old song like this,” said Edward. “After all any one can sneer.... My idea of music is something that stirs one’s heart--I’m not a sentimental chap, but _Ben Bolt_ almost brings the tears to my eyes every time I sing it.”