Vox slipped to the piano, and played the chords of "Salva di Mora" from Gounod's "Faust." And how grandly Downs sang it! If Deacon Brisk had been there, even he, with his "star-twinkling" and "roof-splitting" metaphors, could not have described it. "If Faust sang like that," said an elderly gentleman in the audience to his wife, "no wonder he won the heart of Marguerite." And he pressed his wife's hand, which somehow had got into his. "Hush, John," replied the woman. Then she put a handkerchief to her eyes instead of her lorgnette. "He's all right again," said the man, and he squeezed his wife's arm, and nudged her nervously. "John, don't!" And the woman glanced at the woman next to her, as if that individual might care what cooing these old doves indulged in. This other woman wore a half-veil, one of those vizors with which women hide their beauty or their freckles from the gaze of the curious. Not seeing her face, one cannot say what was transpiring behind the veil; but the veil shook as if some convulsive emotion might be working itself out, or struggling to keep itself in. When Downs left the stage Vox hugged him as a bear would her cub. "Come," said he, "let's go out in the room and talk to the Silvers." "The Silvers here!" exclaimed Downs, in consternation. "They were here, but I believe they have left. Yes, their seats are empty. Now that's too bad." "No wonder they left when they saw me on the stage. Vox, you know that they know all about me. They would kick me off their doorstep if I were a beggar. You've disgraced yourself by bringing me here, as I told you you would. The Silvers, of all the people in the world! I wouldn't have sung if I had suspected their being here." "Well, you did sing. Thank God for it, too," replied his friend. The next Sunday night at the hobnob Vox tried to make a report to the doctor of the progress of his protégé. "Oh, he sang magnificently! I tell you, that man is reinstated in this community. Do you know, doctor, the Silvers were both there?" "Indeed!" ejaculated his friend, pulling Caleb's tail, and laughing at the dog's surprise. Then he pulled it again, and laughed at the dog's jump as if he had never seen such antics before. "See here, doctor, you don't seem to care about Downs. That dog is more to you than a human being. But you've got to listen to me." Vox got rapturous in his account of Downs's success, and ended with, "I couldn't help wishing that his wife had been there to see him--handsome, healthy, true man in every feature and tone of voice. She would have had to fall in love again, or I'll forswear all faith in the sex." The doctor rolled himself on the sofa in such glee that the dog accepted his master's antics as a challenge to more of his own, and pounced upon him. "What's the matter with you now?" asked the singer, in amazement. "Why, his wife was there," roared the doctor.