This lady's contribution to the proceedings was a milk and water ballad of a semi-jocular kind, called "Almost a Case," and the way in which she leered and smirked at the audience from behind her music in order to point the meaning of the verses, was quite alarming. She paid no attention to time, and poor Cecilia was obliged to stop one minute and play furiously the next in order to follow Miss Cassy's spasmodic idea of rendering the song. "So flippant," commented Mrs. Larcher when the fair songstress had retired, "a great want of decorum--she makes my nerves jump." "It's the style of song, mama," said Pumpkin generously. "Then why doesn't she choose less hoppy music?" retorted the matron fanning herself vigorously, "it makes me twitch to hear her. Ah, if she only had my affliction she wouldn't sing at all." Beaumont privately thought this would be an excellent thing for everyone, but did not say so, knowing Mrs. Larcher to be a great friend of Miss Cassy's. Dick Pemberton gave a sea song with great vigour, and received genuine applause, then Una and Reginald sang "Oh, that we two were Maying," which the audience did not care about. The vicar then read Poe's poem of "The Bells" in a ponderous manner, which crushed the airy lines, and after another song from Reginald, Mr. Ferdinand Priggs appeared to recite an original poem "My Ladye Fayre." Mr. Priggs was ushered in by a melancholy strain from the piano, and placing one hand in his breast and tossing back his long hair with the other he burst into a series of questions about the fayre lady. "Was it a dream of sadness That reeled my brain to madness, Or how Did I see her brow With its crown of golden gladness?" After asking these questions Mr. Priggs proved conclusively that it was no dream, but "A wild, weird, wandering, warning dame Who set the ears of all aflame With loud acclaim." The poet treated his audience to about twenty verses of this gruesome production, and having ended with a long sigh stood on the stage for fully a minute. Everyone waited to hear what he was going to say next, but the poetic Ferdinand doubled up his limp body into what he called a bow, and slowly drifted out of sight, his legs apparently taking him wherever they chose to go. On the conclusion of this dismal poem the full company sang "God save the Queen," and the concert ended amid the congratulations of all concerned, as they decided it was a great success. The vicar heartily congratulated the performers on the receipts, as after paying all expenses there remained fully five pounds for the almshouse fund, to aid which the concert had been got up. "Where is Doctor Nestley, to-night?" asked Beaumont as they went out. "He had to stay with the squire," replied Una, who was leaning on Reginald's arm, "he's not at all well." "Nerves?" asked Mrs. Larcher anxiously, taking a medical interest in the case.