of--a--derision; of--a--contumely. Am I wrong in this supposition, Miss Bethia?" "I feel positive that you are right, Homer!" said Miss Wax. "I speak with conviction. In fact, it was the thought of--of Her we honor,"--she glanced at the trophy with an introductory wave,--"that brought me to a decision on the point. I do feel for you, Homer, and share with you the distress of having to--to deny Pindar anything he desires. He will be here soon, and perhaps if we speak to him gently on the subject, he may see it in the light in which it presents itself to us. Probably this side has not been suggested to him." (Has it not? Oh, Miss Prudence! Miss Prudence!) "I think that if we compose our thoughts to a greater degree of calm, we may have more effect. A little music, Homer?" Mr. Homer put his hand to his head with a sigh. "Miss Bethia," he said, "a little music would be balm to the thirsty soul;--a--wings to the rainbow-hued spirit; a--oil which runs down the--" He waved the rest of the simile away. "I thank you, my elegant and valued friend. May I conduct you to the instrument?" It was a pleasant sight to see Mr. Homer conducting Miss Bethia Wax to the instrument. After a profound bow (his feet in the first position in dancing), he held out his hand; she laid the tips of her long fingers delicately in it, and, thus supported, glided across the room; a courtesy of thanks, a bow of acknowledgment, and she sank gracefully on the music-stool, while Mr. Homer returned to his favorite chair, drew a long breath, and sank back with folded hands and closed eyes. Miss Wax's instrument was one of Mr. Homer's chief sources of inspiration, and I must give it a word of description, for perhaps there never was another precisely like it. Tommy Candy called it a barrel-organ, and indeed it was not wholly unlike an idealized barrel of polished rosewood, standing erect on four slender legs. The front was decorated with flutings of red silk; the wood was inlaid with flowers and arabesques in mother-of-pearl. Beneath the silk flutings appeared an ivory handle, and it was by turning this handle that Miss Bethia "performed." "Cecilia's Bouquet" was the name inscribed on the front in flourishing gilt letters; and Miss Bethia had often been told that, when playing on the instrument, she reminded her hearers of the saint of that name. It was perhaps on this account that she was in the habit of assuming a rapt expression at such times, her head thrown back, her eyes raised to the level of the cornice. Thus seated and performing, Miss Bethia was truly a pleasant sight; and the melodies that came faltering out from the old music-box (for really it was nothing else!) were as pensive, mild, and innocent as the good lady herself. "The Maiden's Prayer," "The Sorrowful Shepherd," "Cynthia's Roundelay," and "The Princess Charlotte's Favorite;" these were among them, I remember, but there were twelve airs, and it took quite half an hour to play them all through.