CHAPTER XI.
"Come, Alice," said Mr.Barbour, "I hear, not the trump of war, but the soul-inspiring scrape of the banjo.

I notice the servants always choose the warmest nights to dance in.

Let us go out and see them." "We'll go to the arbor," said Alice; "where we will be near enough to see Uncle Bacchus's professional airs.

Ole Bull can't exceed him in that respect." "Nor equal him," said Mr.Barbour.

"Bacchus is a musician by nature; his time is perfect; his soul is absorbed in his twangs and flourishes." "I must come, too," said Mr.Weston.