“Miriam, my dear, was the sister of Moses and Aaron, you remember.” Missy did remember. “Moses and Aaron? Why, of course!” cried she. “'Says Moses to Aaron! '” The quotation was not meant to go any further; but the white-haired minister asked blandly, “Well, what did he say?” So bland, indeed, was the question that Missy hummed forth after a very trifling hesitation— “Says Moses to Aaron, While talking of these times'— Says Aaron to Moses, 'I vote we make some rhymes! The ways of this wicked world, 'Tis not a bed of roses— No better than it ought to be—' 'Right you are!' says Moses.” There was a short but perfect silence, during which Mrs. Teesdale glared at Missy and her husband looked pained. Then the old minister simply remarked that he saw no fun in profanity, and John William (who was visibly out of his element) felt frightfully inclined to punch Mr. Crowdy's white head for him. But the Reverend Mr. Appleton took a lighter view of the matter. “With all due deference to our dear old friend,” said this gentleman, with characteristic unction, “I must say that I am of opinion 'e is labouring under a slight misconception. Miss Miriam, I feel sure, was not alluding to any Biblical characters at all, but to two typical types of the latter-day Levite. Miss Miriam nods! I knew that I was right!” “Then I was wrong,” said Mr. Crowdy, cheerfully, as he nodded to Missy, who had not seriously aggrieved him; “and all's well that ends well.” “Hear, hear!” chimed in David, thankfully. “Mrs. T., Mr. Appleton's cup's off. And Mr. Crowdy hasn't got any jam. Or will you try our Christmas cake now, Mr. Crowdy? My dears, my dears, you're treating our guests very shabbily!” “Some of them puts people about so—some that ought to know better,” muttered Mrs. Tees-dale under her breath; but after that the tea closed over Missy's latest misdemeanour—if indeed it was one for Missy—and a slightly sticky meal went as smoothly as could be expected to its end. Then Mr. Appleton said grace, and Mr. Crowdy, pushing back his plate and his chair, exclaimed in an oracular wheeze, “The Hundred!” “The Old 'Undredth,” explained the other, getting on his feet and producing a tuning-fork. He was the musical minister, Mr. Appleton. Nevertheless, he led them off too high or too low, and started them afresh three times, before they were all standing round that tea-table and singing in unison at the rate of about two lines per minute— “All—peo—ple—that—on—earth-do—dwell— Sing—to—the—Lord—with—cheer-fill-voice- Him—serve—with—fear—His—praise-forth-tell- Come—ye—be—fore—Him—and—-re-joice.” And so through the five verses, which between them occupied the better part of ten minutes; whereafter Mr. Crowdy knelt them all down with their elbows among the tea-things, and offered up a prayer.