And Charlotte, with eyes laughing down on the two upturned faces, "went on," her jewelled fingers bringing the touch of a practised hand upon the strings, her buoyant figure responsive to the rhythm, while into the Munchausen recital she threw a dash, a swing that rendered the interest breathless. "There was a ram of Derby I've often heard it said, He was the greatest sheep, sir, That ever wore a head. And if you don't believe me And think I tell a lie, Just go down to Derby And see as well as I. "The horns upon this ram, sir, They reached up to the sky, The eagles built their nest there, For I heard the young ones cry. And if you don't believe me, etc., etc. "The wool upon this ram, sir, It grew down to the ground, The devil cut it off, sir, To make a morning gown. And if you don't believe me, etc., etc." And so on through the tale. King William, at her knees, clapped his hands. Alexina, by him, clapped hers, too, for joy of companionship, while the third listener sat with unchanging countenance below. But he liked it, somehow one knew he liked it, knew that he was listening down there in the dusk. Perhaps Charlotte knew it, too. The vibrant twang slowed to richer chords, broke into rippling chromatic, caught a new measure, a minor note, and her contralto began: "I am going far away, far away to leave you now, To the Mississippi River I am going--" But this was only so much suggestion for her son's active brain. "Tell her, mother," he begged, pulling at Charlotte's sleeve; "tell her about the 'King William.'" "And it has lain dormant, this egotism, unsuspected," came up from out of the dusk. Charlotte's fingers swept the chords, her eyes fixed adoringly on her little son's face, the while she sang on, absently, softly: "Down in my ol' cabin home, There lies my sister an' my brother. There lies my wife, the joy of my life, An' the child in the grave with its mother." But King William, far from being harrowed by the woeful enumeration, laid an imperious hand on the strings. "Tell her, mother; I want you to tell her." "Come then, and kiss mother, and I will." He moved the intervening step and submitted a cheek reluctantly. "Just one and you said you'd tell." But Charlotte, imperious herself, waved him off; she'd none of him now. "It's because he's a vain boy, little Mary Alexina Blair, and filled with self-importance, that he wants you to know, and he only wants me to tell you because he has not quite the assurance to do it himself; that is why he wants me to tell about the great, white-prowed Argo--" "We call them bows, not prows," came up out of the dusk.