“That’s not the way to use one of these long Toms,” interposed he, with quiet decision. “They need a rest. Here, take this pillar.” With a bow of acknowledgment the Don obeyed. Mary’s eyes followed Charley with a searching look, as he carelessly sauntered off to the other end of the piazza, muttering half a dozen notes of a popular song; but his serene face gave no sign. CHAPTER XXXIX. Friday came, and the Poythresses, having missed the Leicester Christmas festivities, were to dine with us that day. In the evening there was to be (no wonder my grandfather was out on the porch a dozen times, looking for the first oar-splash on the other side)—in the evening there was to be a quintet; and Mr. Whacker, who was as proud of Lucy as though she were his own daughter, wag eager to exhibit her prowess to the stranger. It must not be supposed, from my silence on this point, that we had had no music since Mr. Whacker’s discovery what a treasure he had in the Don. During this period we had had quartets, duets, solos innumerable. Christmas times, in fact, as understood at Elmington, had irresistible charms for Herr Waldteufel; and he had hardly left us for an hour. And now the company at Elmington stood on the piazza watching the boat that, with measured stroke, approached the foot of the lawn. “How charming to sail forth in a boat to dine!” said Alice. “And then the moonlight row home,” added Mary; “it suggests Venice.” As the boat neared the landing, there was a general movement from the piazza to meet the coming guests, my grandfather leading the way. He had not made many steps before he looked about him, and seeing the Don bringing up the rear, he slackened his pace. The Don came up biting his nails vigorously, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, but from time to time glancing nervously in the direction of the boat. “We have invited the whole family, old and young,” began Mr. Whacker. Mary, just in front, was drinking in with upturned face the soft nothings of some young man; but she chanced to turn her head sufficiently to catch the start with which the Don aroused himself from his revery at these words of his host. “I thought you would like to see little Laura, too.” “Ah, yes, little Laura; it was very thoughtful of you.” “Have you ever heard the little thing sing? Upon my word, she promises to rival Lucy’s talent for music. They get it from their mother. But here they are.” And the old gentleman advanced with all the briskness of hospitality, if not of youth. Charley leaned forward, lifted Laura from the boat, and, kissing her, placed her upon the ground. “Where is he?” cried she; “I don’t see him.” And she looked from face to face with shining eagerness. “Yonder he is,” and away she skipped. “Here he is,” she shouted, twining her arms around his knees; “here is Don Miff, sister Lucy.” There was a general smile, and he stooped and kissed her several times.