It was a smug young cousin of Eliza’s who finally opened her eyes, at one of those family feasts which Simon and Sarah were always expected to attend. Eliza was never at her brightest and best without them, as she very rightly said,--the organ-grinder without his necessary monkey, the circus-master without his jumping clown. As usual, the Simon Thornthwaites heard their belongings catalogued and found utterly wanting, and, as usual, for the time being, shared the general sentiment that they were beneath scorn. The comparisons, passing in and out of shippon and parlour, leaping from feather-bed to sofa, and over root-crops and stacks of hay, arrived finally at the missing sons. "Our Harry’s for learning the violin," Eliza informed the tea-party, swelling with conscious pride. "Master wouldn’t hear tell o’ such a thing at first, but me and the girls talked him round between us. I reckon he’ll be suited all right, though, when he hears our Harry play. Ah, now, Sarah, but wouldn’t that ha’ been just the thing for Geordie-an’-Jim? They were that fond o’ music, the poor lads, though they’d no more tune to the pair on ’em than a steam-whistle. Eh, well, poor things, fiddle-playing and suchlike wouldn’t ha’ been no use to ’em where they’re at. Brass wasted, that’s what it would ha’ been, so it’s just as well...." Harry, also swelling with pride, looked for some sign of admiration from his aunt, but did not get it. Eliza soothed him with a meaning glance. "The trouble is you’ve got to keep your hands terble nice for the violin. Our Harry’s terble set on keeping his hands nice.... Geordie-an’-Jim would never ha’ come to such-like quality ways, would they, Sarah? I never see such hands as the two on ’em used to show at meals! I mind you said they got sent home that often from school, at last the folks took to washing ’em on the spot! I used to be right sorry for you, Sarah, I was that, wi’ their gert finger-marks all over the walls and the chair-backs. It’s queer how different folk shape, I’m sure, even when they’re as you might say near-bred. Our Harry frames rarely at folding tablecloths and the like, and no more dirt to ’em when he’s finished than if he was a lass!" The town-bred cousin gazed complacently at his hands, and observed that, if Geordie-an’-Jim were in Canada, as he understood, from all accounts it was much the best place for them. Eliza nodded lugubriously, the tail of her eye on Sarah’s unstirred face.