At home we sit under Dr M'Craw,
of course; but he is so awfully long! Four hours every Sunday at least,
morning and afternoon! It nearly kills poor Rosey. Did you hear her voice
at your church? The dear girl is delighted with the chants. Rosey, were
you not delighted with the chants?"
If she is delighted with the chants, Honeyman is delighted with the
chantress and her mamma. He dashes the fair hair from his brow: he sits
down to the piano, and plays one or two of them, warbling a faint vocal
accompaniment, and looking as if he would be lifted off the screw
music-stool, and flutter up to the ceiling.
"Oh, it's just seraphic!" says the widow. "It's just the breath of
incense and the pealing of the organ at the Cathedral at Montreal. Rosey
doesn't remember Montreal. She was a wee wee child. She was born on the
voyage out, and christened at sea. You remember, Goby."
"Gad, I promised and vowed to teach her her catechism; 'gad, but I
haven't," says Captain Goby. "We were between Montreal and Quebec for
three years with the Hundredth, and the Hundred Twentieth Highlanders,
and the Thirty-third Dragoon Guards a part of the time; Fipley commanded
them, and a very jolly time we had.
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