Really, it seemed as though the throes of this eruption would rend us to pieces. It had been made plain to the church and the world generally that the long-suffering Mr. Pemberton was now roused. He said with severe dignity that there was a time when patience ceased to be a virtue, and that time had come to him. He had endured enough. He should never enter the doors of that church again, until the minister should either in person or by letter make satisfactory apology to him, and to all the members of his choir, for the insult which they had received. Just what he meant by having "endured enough," or what had so exercised his patience, did not appear. But the roused and indignant Theodore wore all the time a look which translated would have filled volumes. Every member of the choir heartily sympathized with this outburst, and waited for their apology. Now in regard to this apology there was one difficulty. The minister declined to make it! It was not that he was not willing to "become all things to all men," it was not that he did not "study the things which make for peace;" it was simply that he could not very well tell a lie. He was willing to say that perhaps he had erred in judgment in thus publicly addressing the choir; though even here, in justice to the truth, he would have to explain that he had heretofore spoken seriously and gently with several individual members, with no apparent results; and that he came to the serious conclusion that the course he pursued was the best, and perhaps the only one calculated to remove the difficulty. No explanation of this sort would the affable Theodore admit for a moment. The minister must say in so many words that he was sorry and ashamed for his sin in thus publicly disgracing his choir, or the choir would refuse to perform, and Mr. Pemberton would never again enter the church. As I said, there was a constitutional and moral objection on the part of our minister to this decision, so it seemed to be necessary for the accommodating Theodore to stay without. Several miserable weeks ensued, during which time our music was at its worst. It had not even the redeeming feature of being enjoyed by Deacon Slocumb and Auntie Barber. The Deacon sang under protest; and dear old Auntie seemed to understand that her voice was in disgrace, and wailed forth her notes with a tremulousness not all due to age. It was during this time that certain of us made a discovery as to why our congregational singing was so unusually poor. It was apparent that the fresh young voices which had rolled out so jubilantly from the choir seats were absolutely dumb when they were scattered about in the congregation. Look where you would, during Deacon Slocumb's struggles with a tune, and among the young people you would find only apathetic faces and closed lips. They could sing like birds, but they would not.