one of his trips to the kitchen as dinner went on.
"He let dat tar'pin an' dem ducks go by him same
as dey was pizen. But I lay he knows 'bout dat ole
yaller sherry," and Malachi chuckled. "He keeps a'
retchin' fur dat decanter as if he was 'feared somebody'd
git it fust."

On Fridays there would invariably be a musicale--
generally a quartette, with a few connoisseurs to
listen and to criticise. Then the piano would be
drawn out from its corner and the lid propped up,
so that Max Unger of the "Harmonie" could find
a place for his 'cello behind it, and there still be room
for the inventor with his violin--a violin with a tradition,
for Ole Bull had once played on it and in that
same room, too, and had said it had the soul of a Cremona
--which was quite true when Richard Horn
touched its strings.

On all the other nights of the week Mrs. Horn
was at home to all who came. Some gentle old lady
from across the Square, perhaps, in lace caps and ribbons,
with a work-basket filled with fancy crewels, and
whose big son came at nine o'clock to take her home;
or Oliver's young friends, boys and girls; or old Doctor
Wallace, full of the day's gossip; or Miss Lavinia
Clendenning, with news of the latest Assembly; or
Nathan Gill with his flute.

But then it was Nathan always, whatever the occasion.