“Willingly--readily!” exclaimed Arthur Channing, his face glowing. “Then may I really tell Mr. Williams that I can accept it?” “If I don’t say yes, I suppose you’d magnify me into a sullen old bear, as bad as Ketch, the porter. You may accept it. Stop!” thundered Mr. Galloway, coming to a dead standstill. Arthur was startled. “What now, sir?” “Are you to be instructor to those random animals, the choristers?” “Oh no: I shall have nothing to do with that.” “Very good. If you _had_ taken to them, I should have recommended you to guard against such a specimen of singing as was displayed the other day before the judges.” Arthur laughed; spoke a word of heartfelt thanks; and took his way off-hand to the residence of the organist as light as any bird. “I have obtained leave, Mr. Williams; I may take your offer!” he exclaimed with scant ceremony, when he found himself in that gentleman’s presence, who was at tea with his wife. “Mr. Galloway has authorized me to accept it. How do you do, Mrs. Williams?” “That’s a great weight off my mind, then!” cried the organist. “I set that dolt of an apprentice of mine to play the folks out of college, this afternoon, when service was over, and--of all performances! Six mistakes he made in three bars, and broke down at last. I could have boxed his ears. The dean was standing below when I went down. ‘Who was that playing, Mr. Williams?’ he demanded. So, I told him about Jupp’s ill-behaviour in leaving me, and that I had offered the place to you. ‘But is Channing quite competent?’ cried he--for you know what a fine ear for music the dean has:--‘besides,’ he added, ‘is he not at Galloway’s?’ I said we hoped Mr. Galloway would spare you, and that I would answer for your competency. So, mind, Channing, you must put on the steam, and not disgrace my guarantee. I don’t mean the steam of _noise_, or that you should go through the service with all the stops out.” Arthur laughed; and, declining the invitation to remain and take tea, he went out. He was anxious to declare the news at home. A few steps on his road, he overtook Hamish. “Where do you spring from?” exclaimed Hamish, passing his arm within Arthur’s. “From concluding an agreement that will bring me in fifty pounds a year,” said Arthur. “Gammon, Master Arthur!” “It is _not_ gammon, Hamish. It is sober truth.” Hamish turned and looked at him, aroused by something in the tone. “And what are you to do for it?” “Just pass a couple of hours a day, delighting my own ears and heart. Do you remember what Constance said, last night? Hamish, it is _wonderful_, that this help should so soon have come to me!” “Stay! Where are you going?” interrupted Hamish, as Arthur was turning into a side-street. “This is the nearest way home.” “I had rather not go that way.” “Why?” exclaimed Arthur, in surprise. “Hamish, how funny you look! What is the matter?”