Alas for the punch-bowl! It was one of the institutions of the past. It sent a steam of goodwill that diffused itself over those congregated around it! It mellowed the asperities and sweetened the crudities of those who brimmed their glasses from it. What choice stories, what melodious songs, what sportive sallies did it call forth! And the host ladling forth the spicy liquor was brought into intimate and affectionate relationship with his guests. He was like the sun diffusing warmth, light, life to the planets round. That was quite another thing to the butler decanting champagne into a glass. With the punch-bowl something has passed away out of English social life that cannot well be replaced. 'There, Olver,' said the captain; 'it was worth attempting and failing in dance to have a smack of such a drink of the gods as this?' Job was in good humour. 'Now, little maid,' said he, 'and you, Olver; and you, Jane, fill out for the girl a thimbleful. I give the toast of the evening, Success to the undertaking.' 'Success to the undertaking,' said Olver. 'I should like to know what the undertaking is before I drink it,' said Winefred. 'That is no concern of yours.' 'Then,' said she, 'success to every honest and daylight undertaking.' Job and the boatman looked at each other and laughed. 'Come,' said Rattenbury, throwing himself into his seat, 'let us see if you are as nimble with your toes as with your wits. Dance.' The imperiousness of his manner impressed all with the sense that he must be obeyed. 'I cannot dance like Master Dench,' said Winefred, 'I require teaching.' 'I trow not,' retorted the captain. 'If you have music in your soul, dance you can and dance you will. When I touch the strings every nerve in your frame will tremble in reply. Teach you to dance! Who teaches the gulls? Who the yellow butterflies in spring? Who the leaves of the birch? Who the shining-bodied flies of summer? You will dance without teaching if there be music in you. If you have none, no instruction will make of you aught but a bungler like him――――' and had not Olver withdrawn his head it would have been tapped once more. 'Winefred,' said Rattenbury, 'I know you have music. With a plaintive melody I rocked you to sleep, with a lively one I shall make you skip. Dance!' He drew the bow over the strings, and began a lively air. Pleased at his commendation, and eager to oblige, and finding his command consonant with her inclination, she at once tripped on to the red kerchief that still lay on the floor, and moved her feet and clapped her hands, balanced herself now on one toe then on the other, responsive to the music. It was as Rattenbury had said, the melody provoked movement, and every change in the air produced corresponding action in the dancer. Now it was allegro, then andante, now grave, and then a riot of mad and merry flutter.