She set a daguerreotype before Jane. Its oval was bordered with a narrow line of gilded metal and its small square back was covered with embossed brown leather. "There, now! Do you know who that is?" Jane looked back and forth doubtfully between the picture and its owner. "Is it--is it--pa?" Mrs. Bates nodded. Jane regarded the daguerreotype with a puzzled fascination. "Did my father ever wear his hair all wavy across his forehead that way, and have such a thing tied around his throat, and wear a vest all covered with those little gold sprigs?" "Precisely. That's just the way he looked the last time we danced together. And what do you suppose the dance was? Guess and guess and guess again! It was this." Mrs. Bates whisked herself on to the piano-stool and began to play and to sing. Her touch was heavy and spirited, but her voice was easily audible above the instrument. "'Old Dan Tucker, he got drunk; He jumped in the fire and he kicked up a chunk Of red-hot charcoal with his shoe. Lordy! how the ashes flew-hoo!'" Jane dropped the daguerreotype in time to take up the refrain: "'Clear the road for old Dan Tucker! You're too late to get your supper. Clear the road for old Dan--'" "Aha! you know it!" cried Mrs. Bates, gayly. "Of course," responded Jane. "My education may be modern, on the whole; but it hasn't neglected the classics completely! Gentlemen forward!" she said, with a sudden cry, which sent Mrs. Bates's fingers back to the keyboard; "_gentlemen_ forward to Mister Tucker!" Mrs. Bates pounded loudly, and Jane pirouetted up to her from behind. "_Ladies_ forward to Mister Tucker!" cried Jane, and Mrs. Bates left the stool and began dancing towards her. Then she danced back and took her seat again; but with the first chord: "ALL forward to Mister Tucker!" called Jane again; and they met face to face in the middle of the room and burst out laughing. The door opened on a narrow crack, and there appeared Miss Peters's plaintive and inquiring countenance. Mrs. Bates banished her assistant by one look of pathetic protest. "There!" she said, transferring the look to Jane, "you see how it always is when I am trying to have a good time! Even at my own table I can't budge or crack a joke; with those two men behind my chair I feel like my own tombstone. Lock that door," she said to Jane; "I _will_ have a good time, in spite of them! Sit down; I'm going to play the 'Java March' for you." She struck out several ponderous and vengeful chords. "Why," called Jane, "is _that_ the 'Java March'?" She spread out her elbows and stalked up and down singing: "'Oh, the _Dutch_ compa-_nee_ Is the _best_ compa-_nee_!'" "Right again!" cried Mrs. Bates. "You _are_ one of us--just as I said!" "Well, if that's the 'Java March,'" said Jane, "it's in an old book we used to have about the house years and years ago. Only, if you bring it up as an example of pa's taste--"