In addition to what is provided at present, I predict that within the next ten minutes a talented girl who lives two doors south will favor us with the Pilgrims' Chorus, piano arrangement, break down in the middle, and drift, into 'Rastus on Parade,' while a double quartette of middle-aged colored gentlemen under our Jim will make choral offering in our own back yard." "My dear Tom," exclaimed Miss Hinsdale, "you forget Wetherford Swift!" "I could stand it all," put forth the widower, "if it were not for Wetherford Swift." "When is Miss Sherwood coming home ?" asked one of the ladies.

"Why does she stay away and leave him to his sufferings ?" "Us to his sufferings," substituted a bachelor.

"He is just beginning; listen." Through all the other sounds of music, there penetrated from an unseen source, a sawish, scraped, vibration of catgut, pathetic, insistent, painstaking, and painful beyond belief.
"He is in a terrible way to-night," said the widower.
Miss Hinsdale laughed.

"Worse every night.

The violinist is young Wetherford Swift," she explained to Harkless.