Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Two.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Four.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Five.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Six.
Volume Three—Chapter One.
Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.
Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.
Volume Three—Chapter Seventeen.
Volume Three—Chapter Eighteen.
Volume Three—Chapter Nineteen.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty One.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Two.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Three.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Four.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Five.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Six.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Seven.
Volume One—Chapter Two.
Jared at Home.
Jared Pellet sat in the front parlour—pro tem, his workshop—while, to keep the sun from troubling him, Patty had been pinning up the broad sheet of a newspaper over the window, and now descended by means of a chair. For jared was busy working a curious-looking pair of bellows with his foot, and making a little tongue of metal to vibrate with a most ear-piercing but doleful note in the process of being tuned, before being returned to the German concertina, where its duty was to occupy the part of leading note in the major scale of C.
“Hum-um,” sang Jared, checking the current of air, and striking a tuning-fork upon his little bench. “Hum-um; a bit flat, eh, Patty?”
“Just a little,” said Patty, looking up from her work.
“But there, only think!” cried Jared, dropping his tuning-fork, leaving his task, and crossing over to an old harmonium, over whose keys he ran his bony fingers; “only think if I could—only think if I could get it! Fifty pounds a year for two practices a week, and duty three times on Sundays. Black, of course, for your mother; but what coloured silk shall it be for you, eh, Patty?”
“Silk?” said Patty wonderingly, and her eyes grew more round.
“Yes, silk—dress, you know,” said Jared, jumping up again from the harmonium, and walking excitedly about the room. “Only think if I could get it—Jared Pellet—no, Mr. Jared Pellet; or ought it to be esquire, eh, Patty? Organist of St. Runwald’s. But there,” he continued, with a grim smile, “this is counting the chickens before they are hatched, and when there has not been one solitary peck at the shell. Heigho, Patty, if the wind has not been and blown down my card house.”
“Is any one at home?” said a high-pitched, harsh voice, as the door was quietly opened, and a little yellow-looking
