The vicar's wife had lamented a lack of music which would afford variation from the prosaic business of buying and selling. At the time Joan had suspected a hint, and had resolutely turned a deaf ear. She hated singing to strangers, she hated singing in a building notably deficient in acoustic properties, she had not the faintest intention of victimising herself for the sake of a village throng. But now, with the new impetus driving her on, nothing seemed too hard or distasteful. The vicar's wife should have her music--music with such accessories as it had never entered her modest head to imagine, music which should be the feature _par excellence_ of the bazaar. Joan's was a quick, inventive brain; within half an hour she had mentally arranged her programme, made a list of the necessary accessories, and planned how they should be procured. When the little party were again assembled for luncheon she was able to state her plans with an air of complete assurance which left them breathless with astonishment. She had decided to provide two short concerts, one in the afternoon, one in the evening. She would sing two songs; Pixie should do the same. They would all join in appropriate part songs. By way of a climax the last number on the programme should be illustrated by a _tableau vivant_. She proposed to write special words to a well-known air which, together with the tableau, should illustrate the benefits which the bazaar was destined to provide for the villagers. The tableau should represent a scene in a cottage interior in which were grouped four figures--a child suffering from an accident, a distraught mother, a helpless father, and in the background, bending beneficently over the patient, the parish nurse. Esmeralda looked around for approval, and met the stare of blank and doubtful faces. "Er--a bit lugubrious, isn't it, Mrs Hilliard?" ventured Stanor at last, voicing the general impression so strongly that Esmeralda's imagination instantly took another leap. "Certainly not, for I should have a second tableau to follow to show the happy convalescence--child sitting up in bed, pale but smiling, nurse bringing in bunch of flowers, father and mother, with outstretched hands, pouring out thanks." "That's better! That's more like it!" The murmur of approval passed down the table. Pixie laid her head on one side in smiling consideration. Yes, it would go; arranged with Esmeralda's skill and taste the scenes would be pretty and touching, especially when seen to the accompaniment of her beautiful voice. The shortness of the time allowed for preparation troubled Pixie no more than her sister. She smiled at Esmeralda and nodded a cheery encouragement. "I'll be the distracted mother, and weep into my apron. Honor will look a duck in a cap. Who's to be the little victim?"