After considerable whispering between Jane and her mother, the former withdrew, and sent in by the Irish girl a waiter with a basket of soda biscuit, a pitcher of water, and some glasses. Mrs. Watkinson invited her guests to consider themselves at home and help themselves freely, saying: “We never let cakes, sweetmeats, confectionery, or any such things enter the house, as they would be very unwholesome for the children, and it would be sinful to put temptation in their way. I am sure, ma’am, you will agree with me that the plainest food is the best for everybody. People that want nice things may go to parties for them; but they will never get any with me.” When the collation was over, and every child provided with a biscuit, Mrs. Watkinson said to Mrs. Morland: “Now, ma’am, you shall have some music from my daughter Jane, who is one of Mr. Bangwhanger’s best scholars.” Jane Watkinson sat down to the piano and commenced a powerful piece of six mortal pages, which she played out of time and out of tune; but with tremendous force of hands; notwithstanding which, it had, however, the good effect of putting most of the children to sleep. To the Morlands the evening had seemed already five hours long. Still it was only half past ten when Jane was in the midst of her piece. The guests had all tacitly determined that it would be best not to let Mrs. Watkinson know their intention to go directly from her house to Mrs. St. Leonard’s party; and the arrival of their carriage would have been the signal of departure, even if Jane’s piece had not reached its termination. They stole glances at the clock on the mantel. It wanted but a quarter of eleven, when Jane rose from the piano, and was congratulated by her mother on the excellence of her music. Still no carriage was heard to stop; no doorbell was heard to ring. Mrs. Morland expressed her fears that the coachman had forgotten to come for them. “Has he been paid for bringing you here?” asked Mrs. Watkinson. “I paid him when we came to the door,” said Edward. “I thought perhaps he might want the money for some purpose before he came for us.” “That was very kind in you, sir,” said Mrs. Watkinson, “but not very wise. There’s no dependence on any coachman; and perhaps as he may be sure of business enough this rainy night he may never come at all—being already paid for bringing you here.” Now, the truth was that the coachman _had_ come at the appointed time, but the noise of Jane’s piano had prevented his arrival being heard in the back parlor. The Irish girl had gone to the door when he rang the bell, and recognized in him what she called “an ould friend.” Just then a lady and gentleman who had been caught in the rain came running along, and seeing a carriage drawing up at a door, the gentleman inquired of the driver if he could not take them to Rutgers Place. The driver replied that he had just come for two ladies and a gentleman whom he had brought from the Astor House.