“Tut! my dear friend; don’t be offended. You have called me a wise woman so often that I believe I am one. Well, trust a wise woman, and look before you leap.” “I am not in the habit of leaping, Emmeline,” said the Canon, stiffly. Mrs. Winstanley laughed, as if she had a sense of humour; and in a few minutes was driving Yvonne homewards in her snug brougham. But the Canon, after he had performed his last duties as host towards his right reverend guest, sought the great leathern armchair before his study fire and lit a cigar. Emmeline’s words had disturbed him. That is the worst of keeping a consultant cousin--a woman of sense. Her advice _may_ save you from months of regret, but it is sure to cause you bad quarters of an hour. You remember the woman and disregard the sense on such occasions; or _vice versa_. Hitherto Emmeline had been infallible. The fact annoyed him, and he let his cigar die out, another irritation. At last he rose impatiently, and going to a violin-case, drew from it a favourite Guarnerius fiddle, tenderly wrapped in a silk handkerchief. And then, having put on the _sourdine_, so as not to disturb right reverend slumbers, he played “O, rest in the Lord,” with considerable taste and execution. Perhaps it is well that Mrs. Winstanley did not hear him. ***** The concert began at three o’clock. The new Town Hall was packed from ceiling to floor. Canon Chisely stood up by his seat near the platform and looked around at the great mass of the audience, which included the flower and influence of the county, and then, turning, scanned the serried hedgerow of the orchestra, the crowding terraces of the choir, and the thin line of professionals in front, among whom Yvonne’s tiny figure had just come to make a spot of grace; and he felt a glow of pride. It was all his doing. The dream of many years was in process of being realised--the completion of the Abbey Restoration Fund. Moreover, he had succeeded in developing his first conception of an unambitious concert into a musical event, to be chronicled by critics from the London dailies. He had other reasons, too, for satisfaction, neither professional nor aesthetic.