Arriving at the end of it, and even the most delicious songs _will_ come to an end, the new music master was most enthusiastic in his praises. The doctor would qualify _his_ praise. The voice was good--granted. But the airs--why the airs of the present day--what were they? Contemptible. Now, for instance, when the wonderful Cafariello sang, and when he sang that wonderful ‘la, la, la’ of his, why there was an air to which none could object. In fact he would sing it. It began-- “When thou art near, Rosina dear.” To be sure the song said Giannina--but never mind. “When thou art ne-e-e-ar, Rosina de-e-e-ar, With joy and fe-e-e-ar, there falls a te-e-e-ar.” This delicious romance the old doctor pointed by means of his right foot and toes. He also elaborated the accent by means, first of his right hand and arm, and then of his left hand and arm; and getting to te-e-a-r, he laid both his hands on his heart, looked sentimental, and fell into a rage; for he caught sight of Figaro behind him, mimicking him. Meanwhile, the professor of music was diligently explaining (perhaps the ground-work of music), to the young lady, who was as diligently listening. The barber was horrified at the doctor’s discovery, and immediately flourished about his razors. “Well--well--well.” “Excuse me, Senor--I come to shave you.” “I’ll not be shaved to-_day_.” “Then not to-morrow. I’m engaged to-morrow.” “I say I’ll not be shaved to-_day_.” “What, doctor--think you I’m a _country shaver_! So please you find another barber--I am off.” “Well--well--have your way. Go to my room and--no--no, I’ll go myself.” I have forgotten to say that the old doctor had locked up the balcony, and carried the key in his pocket--with all the other keys--a mighty bunch. The doctor locked up everything. Amongst other things and places, the doctor always locked up his own room. Now, therefore, he hauled forth the mighty bunch, and turned his legs towards the door. Suddenly his suspicion was all awake again. What, leave the stranger and the barber there! No--no. “Here, Figaro--take the keys; be careful, and break nothing!” As Figaro passed the young lady she looked up, and said rapidly--“The newest key there is.” With a jingle of triumph the barber ran off. “Hu-u-u-m--that Senor, music-master, was the rascal who brought her the letter from the count.” “Indeed!” At this moment there was heard a horrible crash, which sounded like a canonnade with china bowls. Away flew the doctor after the barber; again the explanation of the “ground-work” went on; and was only interrupted by Figaro’s flying entrance--a bright new little key between his fore-finger and thumb. Victory--in fact! But he showed a very doleful countenance as the doctor came deploringly in the room. “Six plates--eight basins--one tureen! Was such damage ever seen?”