Harry instantly declared for a little gun: and Madam Warrington (as she
then was called) was hurt that her elder boy should have low tastes, and
applauded the younger's choice as more worthy of his name and lineage.
"Books, papa, I can fancy to be a good choice," she replied to her
father, who tried to convince her that George had a right to his opinion,
"though I am sure you must have pretty nigh all the books in the world
already. But I never can desire--I may be wrong, but I never can desire--
that my son, and the grandson of the Marquis of Esmond, should be a
fiddler."

"Should be a fiddlestick, my dear," the old Colonel answered.

"Remember that Heaven's ways are not ours, and that each creature born
has a little kingdom of thought of his own, which it is a sin in us to
invade. Suppose George loves music? You can no more stop him than you can
order a rose not to smell sweet, or a bird not to sing."

"A bird! A bird sings from nature; George did not come into the world
with a fiddle in his hand," says Mrs. Warrington, with a toss of her
head. "I am sure I hated the harpsichord when a chit at Kensington
School, and only learned it to please my mamma. Say what you will, dear
sir, I can not believe that this fiddling is work for persons of
fashion."

"And King David who played the harp, my dear?"

"I wish my papa would read him more, and not speak about him in that
way," said Mrs. Warrington.

"Nay, my dear, it was but by way of illustration," the father replied