The sententious graybeard was never quite so happy, never looked quite so wise, never shook his head with such an air of good-humored consequence, never winked with such profundity of facetiousness, as when "the laal limber Frenchman" was giving a "merry touch." Wouldn't Monsey sing summat and fiddle to it too; aye, that he would, Mattha knew reet weel.
"Sing!" cried the little man,--"sing! Monsieur, the dog shall try me this conclusion.

If he wag his tail, then will I sing; if he do not wag his tail, then--then will I not be silent.

What say you Laddie ?" The dog responded to the appeal with an opportune if not an intelligent wag of that member on which so momentous an issue hung.
From one of the rosy closets in the wall a fiddle was forthwith brought out, and soon the noise of the tempest was drowned in the preliminary tuning of strings and running of scales.
"You shall beat the time, my patriarch," said Monsey.
"Nay, man; it's thy place to kill it," answered Matthew.
"Then you shall mark the beat, or beat the mark, or make your mark.
You could never write, you know." It was a sight not to be forgotten to see the little schoolmaster brandishing his fiddlestick, beating time with his foot, and breaking out into a wild shout when he hit upon some happy idea, for he rejoiced in a gift of improvisation.

A burst of laughter greeted the climax of his song, which turned on an unheroic adventure of old Matthew's.

The laughter had not yet died away when a loud knocking came to the door.