Thus, at about eight o'clock that evening, the two ladies sat in the library engaged in conversation--though, for the sake of accuracy, it should be said that Mrs.Tanberry was engaged in conversation, Miss Betty in giving ear--when their attention was arrested by sounds of a somewhat musical nature from the lawn, which sounds were immediately identified as emanating from a flute and violin.
Mrs.Tanberry bounded across the room like a public building caught by a cyclone, and, dashing at the candles, "Blow 'em out, blow 'em out!" she exclaimed, suiting the action to the word in a fluster of excitement.
"Why ?" asked Miss Carewe, startled, as she rose to her feet.

The candles were out before the question.
"'Why!" repeated the merry, husky voice in the darkness.

"My goodness, child precious, those vagabonds are here! To think of your never having been serenaded before!" She drew the girl to the window and pointed to a group of dim figures near the iliac bushes.

"The dear, delightful vagabonds!" she chuckled.
"I knew they'd come! It's the beautiful Tappingham Marsh with his fiddle, and young Jeff Bareaud with his flute, and 'Gene Madrillon and little Frank Chenowith and thin Will Cummings to sing.

Hark to the rascals!" It is perfectly truthful to say that the violin and flute executed the prelude, and then the trio sounded full on the evening air, the more effective chords obligingly drawn out as long as the breath in the singers could hold them, in order to allow the two fair auditors complete benefit of the harmony.