“Oh, no, Mr. Kelton, you would never desert us in such a fashion; it would not be like you to do so,” said Mrs. Cafifyn. “Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst is, I know, coming to our concert solely to hear you sing ‘In the Land of Sleep.’” “I cannot help that, Mrs. Cafifyn. I do not expect a great deal when I come to sing at a country concert, but I look for common civility, Mrs. Cafifyn--common civility.” “We are all so sorry. I would not for anything that this--this little difference should arise. You will make allowance for the strain upon poor Mr. Tutt--I know you will.” “Not unless he apologizes--I have a certain amount of self-respect, Mrs. Caffyn. I have no idea of allowing a person in the position of Mr. Tutt to presume----” “Oh, mother, I have just been talking to Priscilla, and she says she will be delighted to play the accompaniment to ‘The Land of Sleep,’” said Rosa Caffyn, who came up hastily to the platform at that moment. She was a girl who was alluded to in a friendly spirit as healthy--in an unhealthy spirit as blowsy. She had a good eye, critics of beauty affirmed, and a straightforward voice, Mr. Tutt had more than once announced to the schoolmistress. “How sweet of Priscilla!” cried Mrs. Caffyn. “Oh, Mr. Kelton, you will, I know, be pleased with Priscilla’s playing--Miss Wadhurst, you know,” she added in an explanatory tone. Mr. Kelton pursed out his lips slightly, assuming the air of a man who is being bandaged by the people in the motor that has knocked him down--an air of aggrieved submission. “An amateur?” he said. “I am not familiar with the name as a professional.” “Oh, yes--strictly amateur,” replied Miss Caffyn, who played golf and other things, and so knew all about the distinctions between performers. “I’m not accustomed to be accompanied by amateurs,” said the tenor, who was a bank clerk in the county town, “but I don’t mind giving her a trial. Where is she?” He put on his _pince-nez_ and looked patronizingly around. “Here she comes,” said Rosa, beckoning to some one who was seated in the body of the school-house--a young woman with a good deal that might be called striking about her, besides her hair, which was rather marvellous, and made one think of a painter of the early Venetian school--there was too much of brown in it to allow of its ever being called golden, and too much of gold to admit of its being called coppery. People who knew where they stood compromised the matter by calling it marvellous. But whatever it was it suited her, though a girl or two had said positively that Priscilla Wadhurst would be nothing without her hair. They were wrong: she would still have been Priscilla--with a difference. “It is so sweet of you, Priscilla,” began Mrs Caffyn. “Oh, no,” said Priscilla; “I am not good enough--not nearly good enough.” She cast down her eyes for a tremulous moment, and then raised them coyly to Mr. Kelton’s face; and she saw by the way he looked at her that he thought she would do.