It had gone hard with the vested choir but for Mrs. Ogden. Mr. Fellowes pleaded in vain; in vain the Ladies’ Auxiliary passed resolutions; the rector was firm. It was only when Mrs. Ogden swept in upon him in his study, a chastened, still apprehensive boy under one arm, followed by half a dozen women similarly equipped, and made a speech that will adorn the parish annals for many a year, that he yielded, respectfully convinced. Edgar had met his Waterloo, and lived, so to speak, under a consequent military surveillance, with much of his prestige gone, his pay docked for a month, and the certainty of approaching warm weather, when it would be impossible to take cold, and nothing but a summons to the choir invisible could excuse him from rehearsals here, to render the future all too clear to him. In the words of the processional, “_His tongue could never tire Of singing with the choir._” To-day, if you should attend evensong at St. Mark’s, you will beyond a doubt be delighted with a silver voice that appears to proceed from a violet-eyed boy with a sweet expression. “_It is a good thing to give thanks unto the Lord!_” the voice declares melodiously, but it is doubtful if its owner is in a thankful frame of mind. He would in all probability prefer to be with his brother Samuel, who is at present touring the West triumphantly with a Methodist revivalist, rendering “_Where is my wandering boy to-night?_” to weeping congregations for ten dollars a week and his traveling expenses. And even this success leaves Squealer dissatisfied; he would far rather be in his father’s position—first tenor in the Denman Thompson Old Homestead Quartette—and sing “The Palms” behind the scenes, when the stereopticon vision of the repentant prodigal thrills the audience. It would seem that your artistic temperament is doomed to discontent. Whereas Mrs. Ogden, who cannot carry a tune, is perfectly satisfied with fine laundry work. [Illustration: “_Perfectly satisfied with fine laundry work._”] THE LITTLE GOD AND DICKY “Where are you going?” said somebody, as he slunk out toward the hatrack. [Illustration: “_He turned like a stag at bay._”] “Oh, out,” he returned, with what a vaudeville artist would call a good imitation of a person wishing to appear blamelessly forgetful of something he remembered quite distinctly. “Well, see that you don’t stay long. Remember what it is this afternoon.” He turned like a stag at bay. “_What_ is it this afternoon?” he demanded viciously. “You know very well.” “_What?_” “See that you’re here, that’s all. You’ve got to get dressed.” “I will not go to that old dancing-school again, and I tell you that I won’t, and I won’t. And I won’t!” “Now, Dick, don’t begin that all over again. It’s so silly of you. You’ve got to go.” “Why?” “Because it’s the thing to do.” “Why?” “Because you must learn to dance.” “Why?” “Every nice boy learns.” “Why?”