Accordingly Missy reappeared in the verandah about tea-time, and in the verandah she was once more paralysed with the special terror that was hanging over her from hour to hour in these days. An unfamiliar black coat had its back to the parlour window; it was only when Missy discerned an equally unfamiliar red face at the other side of the table that she remembered that Christmas visitors had been expected in the afternoon, and reflected that these must be they. The invited guests were a brace of ministers connected with the chapel attended by the Teesdales, and the red face, which was also very fat, and roofed over with a thatch of very white hair, rose out of as black a coat as that other of which Missy had seen the back. So these were clearly the ministers. And they were already at tea.

As soon as Missy entered the parlour she recognised the person sitting with his back to the window. He had lantern jaws hung with black whiskers, and a very long but not so very cleanshaven upper lip. His name was Appleton, he was the local minister, and Missy had not only been taken to hear him preach, but she had met him personally, and made an impression, judging by the length of time the ministers hand had rested upon her shoulder on that occasion. He greeted her now in a very complimentary manner, and with many seasonable wishes, which received the echo of an echo from the elder reverend visitor, whom Mrs. Teesdale made known to Missy as their old friend Mr. Crowdy.

“Mr. Crowdy,” added Mrs. T., reproachfully, “came all the way from Williamtown to preach our Christmas morning sermon. It was a beautiful sermon, if ever I heard one.”

“It was that,” put in David, wagging his kind old head. “But you should have told Mr. Crowdy, my dear, how Miriam feels our heat. I wouldn't let her go this morning, Mr. Crowdy, on that account. So you see it's me that's to blame.”

Mr. Crowdy looked very sorry for Miriam, but very well pleased with himself and the world. Missy was shooting glances of gratitude at her indefatigable old champion. Mr. Crowdy began to eye her kindly out of his fat red face.

“So your name's Miriam? A good old-fashioned Biblical name, is Miriam,” he said, in a wheezy, plethoric voice. “Singular thing, too, my name's Aaron; but I'd make an oldish brother for you, young lady, hey?”

Miriam laughed without understanding, and showed this. So Mr. Teesdale explained.

“Miriam, my dear, was the sister of Moses and Aaron, you remember.”

Missy did remember.

“Moses and Aaron? Why, of course!” cried she. “'Says Moses to Aaron! '”

The quotation was not meant to go any further; but the white-haired minister asked blandly, “Well, what did he say?” So bland, indeed, was the question that Missy hummed forth after a very trifling hesitation—

“Says Moses to Aaron,

While talking of these times'—

Says Aaron to Moses,

'I vote we make some rhymes!

The ways of this wicked world,

'Tis not a bed of roses—

No better than it ought to be—'

'Right you are!' says Moses.”

There was a short but perfect silence, during which Mrs. Teesdale glared at Missy and her husband looked pained. Then the old minister simply remarked that he saw no fun in profanity, and John William (who was visibly out of his element) felt frightfully inclined to punch Mr. Crowdy's white head for him. But the Reverend Mr. Appleton took a lighter view of the matter.

“With all due deference to our dear old friend,” said this gentleman, with characteristic unction, “I must say that I am of opinion 'e is labouring under a slight misconception. Miss Miriam, I feel sure, was not alluding to any Biblical characters at all, but to two typical types of the latter-day Levite. Miss Miriam nods! I knew that I was right!”

“Then I was wrong,” said Mr. Crowdy, cheerfully, as he nodded to Missy, who had not seriously aggrieved him; “and all's well that ends well.”

“Hear, hear!” chimed in David, thankfully. “Mrs. T., Mr. Appleton's cup's off. And Mr. Crowdy hasn't got any jam. Or will you try our Christmas cake now, Mr. Crowdy? My dears, my dears, you're treating our guests very shabbily!”

“Some of them puts people about so—some that ought to know better,” muttered Mrs. Tees-dale under her breath; but after that the tea closed over Missy's latest misdemeanour—if indeed it was one for Missy—and a slightly sticky meal went as smoothly as could be expected to its end.

Then Mr. Appleton said grace, and Mr. Crowdy, pushing back his plate and his chair, exclaimed in an oracular wheeze, “The Hundred!”

“The Old 'Undredth,” explained the other, getting on his feet and producing a tuning-fork. He was the musical minister, Mr. Appleton. Nevertheless, he led them off too high or too low, and started them afresh three times, before they were all standing round that tea-table and singing in unison at the rate of about two lines per minute—

“All—peo—ple—that—on—earth-do—dwell—

Sing—to—the—Lord—with—cheer-fill-voice-

Him—serve—with—fear—His—praise-forth-tell-

Come—ye—be—fore—Him—and—-re-joice.”

And so through the five verses, which between them occupied the better part of ten minutes; whereafter Mr. Crowdy knelt them all down with their elbows among the tea-things, and offered up a prayer.

Now it is noteworthy that the black sheep of this mob, that had no business to be in this mob at all, displayed no sort of inclination to smile at these grave proceedings. They took Missy completely by surprise; but they failed to tickle her sense of humour, because there was too much upon the conscience which had recently been born again to Missy's soul. On the contrary, the hymn touched her heart and the prayer made it bleed; for that heart was become like a foul thing cleaned in the pure atmosphere of this peaceful homestead. The prayer was very long and did not justify its length. It comprised no point, no sentence, which in itself could have stung a sinner to the quick. But through her fingers Missy could see the bald pate, the drooping eyelids, and the reverent, submissive expression of old Mr. Teesdale. And they drew the blood. The girl rose from her knees with one thing tight in her mind. This was the fixed determination to undeceive that trustful nature without further delay than was necessary, and in the first fashion which offered.

A sort of chance came almost immediately; it was not the best sort, but Missy had grown so desperate that now she was all for running up her true piratical colours and then sheering off before a gun could be brought to bear upon her. So she seized the opportunity which occurred in the best parlour, to which the party adjourned after tea. The best parlour was very seldom used. It had the fusty smell of all best parlours, which never are for common use, and was otherwise too much of a museum of albums, antimacassars, ornaments and footstools, to be a very human habitation at its best. Though all that met the eye looked clean, there was a strong pervading sense of the dust of decades; but some of this was about to be raised.

In the passage Mr. Appleton had taken Missy most affectionately by the arm, and had whispered of Mr. Crowdy, who was ahead, “A grand old man, and ripe for 'eaven!” But as they entered the best parlour he was complimenting Missy upon her voice, which had quite altered the sound of the late hymn from the moment when John William fetched and handed to her an open hymn-book. And here Mr. Crowdy, seating himself in the least uncomfortable of the antimacassared chairs, had his say also.

“I like your voice too,” the florid old minister observed, cocking a fat eye at Miriam. “But it is only natural that any young lady of your name should be musical. Surely you remember? 'And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances—' and so forth. Exodus fifteenth. I suppose you can't play upon the timbrel, hey, Miss Miriam?”

“No,” said Missy; “but I can dance.”

“Hum! And sing? What I mean is, young lady, do you only sing hymns?”

Missy kept her countenance.

“I have sung songs as well,” she ventured to assert.

“Then give us one now, Missy,” cried old Tees-dale. “That's what Mr. Crowdy wants, and so do we all.”

“Something lively?” suggested Missy, looking doubtfully at the red-faced minister.

“Lively? To be sure,” replied Mr. Crowdy. “Christmas Day, young lady, is not like a Sunday unless it happens to fall on one, which I'm glad it hasn't this year. Make it as lively as convenient. I like to be livened up!” And the old man rubbed his podgy hands and leant forward in the least uncomfortable chair.

“And shall I give you a dance too?”

“A dance, by all means, if you dance alone. I understand that such dancing has become quite the rage in the drawing-rooms at home. And a very good thing too, if it puts a stop to that dancing two together, which is an abomination in the sight of the Lord. But a dance by yourself—by all manner of means!” cried Mr. Crowdy, snatching off his spectacles and breathing upon the lenses.

“But I should require an accompaniment.”

“Nothing easier. My friend Appleton can accompany anything that is hummed over to him twice. Can't you, Appleton?”

“Mr. Crowdy,” replied the younger man, in an injured voice, as he looked askance at a little old piano with its back to the wall, and still more hopelessly at a music-stool from which it would be perfectly impossible to see the performance; “Mr. Crowdy, I do call this unfair! I—I——”

“You—you—I know you, sir!” cried the aged divine, with unmerciful good-humour. “Haven't I heard you do as much at your own teas? Get up at once, sir, and don't shame our cloth by disobliging a young lady who is offering to sing to us in the latest style from England!”

“I'm not offering, mind!” said Missy a little sharply. “Still, I'm on to do my best. Come over here, Mr. Appleton, and I'll hum it quite quietly in your ear. It goes something like this.”

That conquered Appleton; but the Teesdales, while leaving the whole matter in the hands of Missy and of the venerable Mr. Crowdy, who wanted to hear her sing, had thrown in words here and there in favour of the performance and of Mr. Appleton's part in it; all except Mrs. T., who was determined to have no voice in a matter of which she hoped to disapprove, and who showed her determination by an even more unsympathetic cast of countenance than was usual with her wherever Missy was concerned. Mrs. T. was seated upon a hard sofa by her husband's side, Arabella on a low footstool, John William by the window, and the two ministers we know where. The one at the piano seemed to have got his teeth into a banjo accompaniment which would have sounded very wonderfully like a banjo on that little old tin-pot piano if he had thumped not quite so hard; but now Missy was posing in front of the mantelpiece, and all eyes but the unlucky accompanist's were covering her eagerly.

“Now you're all right, Mr. Appleton. You keep on like that, and I'll nip in when I'm ready. If I stop and do a spout between the verses you can stop too, only don't forget to weigh in with the chorus. But when I dance, you keep on. See? That'll be all right, then. Ahem!”

Missy had spoken behind her hand in a stage whisper; now she turned to her audience and struck an attitude that made them stare. The smile upon her face opened their eyes still wider—it was so brazen, so insinuating, and yet so terribly artificial. And with that smile she began to dance, very slowly and rhythmically, plucking at her dress and showing her ankles, while Appleton thumped carefully on, little knowing what he was missing. And when it seemed as though no song was coming the song began.

But the dance went on through all, being highly appropriate, at all events to verse one, which ran:—

“Yuss! A fling and a slide with a pal, inside,

It isn't 'alf bad—but mind you!

The spot for a 'op is in front o' the shop

With a fried-fish-breeze be'ind you...

Well! Every lass was bold as brass,

But divvle a one a Venus;

An' Rorty 'Arry as I'm to marry

The only man between us!”

Here Missy and the music stopped together, Mr. Appleton holding his fingers in readiness over the next notes, while Missy interrupted her dance, too, to step forward and open fire upon her audience in the following prose:—

“Now that's just 'ow the 'ole thing 'appened. They wouldn't give my pore 'Arry no peace—catch them! Well, 'Arry'e done 's level—I will say that for 'im. 'E took on three at once; but 'is legs wouldn't go round fast enough, an' 'is arms wouldn't go round at all—catch them! Now would you believe it? When 'e's 'ad enough o' the others—a nasty common low lot they was, too—'e 'as the cheek to come to yours truly. But—catch me! 'No, 'Arry,' I sez, 'ere's 2d. to go and 'ave a pint o' four-'.lf,' I sez, 'w'ich you must need it,' I sez—just like that. So 'e goes an' 'as 'alf a dozen. That's my 'Arry all over, that is! An' w'en 'e come back 'e 'as the impidence to ax me again. But I give 'im a look like this,” cried Missy, leering horribly at the venerable Crowdy. “Such a look! Just like that”—with a repetition of the leer for Mrs. Teesdale's special benefit—“'.ause I seen what was wrong with 'im in the twinkling of a dress-improver. An' after that—chorus-up, Mr. Appleton!—why, after that—

“'Arry 'e 'ad the 'ump,

An' I lets 'im know it—plump

'E swore 'e'd not,

So 'e got it 'ot,

I caught 'im a good ole crump.

You should 'a' seen 'im jump!

I didn't give a dump!

For I yells to 'is pals

'Now look at 'im, gals—

Arry, 'e 'as the 'ump!'.rdquo;

The dancing had been taken up again with the chorus. There was some dancing plain at the end of it. Then came verse two:—

“'E swore and cussed till you thought 'e'd bust,

W'ich' is 'abit is when drinky;

'E cussed and swore till 'is mouth was sore

An' the street was painted pinky.

So I sez, sez I, to a stander-by

As was standin' by to listen,

'We've 'ad quite enough o' the reg'lar rough,

An' a bit too much o' this 'un!'.rdquo;

“'Yuss,'.rdquo; continued Missy without a break, “'an' if you're a man,' I sez, 'come an' 'elp shift this 'ere bloomin' imitition,' I sez. 'Right you are,' 'e sez, 'since you put it so flatterin' like. An' wot do they call you, my dear,' sez 'e. 'That's my bloomin' business,' sez I, 'wot's yours on the charge-sheet?' 'Ted,' sez 'e. 'Right,' sez I. 'You git a holt of 'is 'eels, Ted, an' I'll 'ang on to 'is 'air!'.rdquo;

Up to this point matters had proceeded without audible let or hindrance. But it appeared that at the psychological moment now reached by the narrator the prostrate hero had regained the command of his tongue, and the use he made of it was represented by Missy in so voluble and violent a harangue, couched in such exceedingly strong language, and all hurled so pointedly at the heads of Mr. and Mrs. Teesdale on the sofa opposite the fire-place, that an inevitable interruption now occurred.

“It's quite disgusting! I won't allow such language in my house. Stop at once!” cried Mrs. T. half rising; but Missy's voice was louder; while old David stretched an arm in front of his wife and fenced her to the sofa.

“Sit still, my dear, and don't be foolish,” said he, quite firmly. “Can't you see that it's part of the song, and only in fun?”

“Only in fun!” echoed Missy, whose speaking voice had risen to a hoarse scream. “Ho, yuss, an' I s'pose it was fun between 'Arry an' me an' Ted? You bet your bags it wasn't! Why, time we'd done with 'im, Ted's rigging was gone to glory—all but 'is chest-protector. And as for me, you couldn't ha' made a decent pen-wiper out o' my 'ole attire. An' why? Why 'cause—now then, you at the pianner!—'cause—

“'Arry' e' ad the 'ump—

The liquorin' lushin' lump—

So I sez to Ted,

“Ere, sit on 'is 'ead,

Or shove 'im under the pump!'

Ted 'e turns out a trump.

We done it with bump an' thump.

For that 'orrible 'Arry

Was 'eavy to carry—

An' 'Arry 'e 'ad 'ump!”

Now not one of them guessed that this was the end of the song. They had made up their minds to more and worse, and they got it in Missy's final dance. She was wearing a dark blue skirt of some thin material. Already there had been glimpses of a white underskirt and a pair of crimson ankles, but now there were further and fuller views. John William and Arabella had been curiously and painfully fascinated from the beginning. Their father was still barring their mother to the sofa with an outstretched arm. The poor old minister sat forward in his chair with his eyes protruding from his head. His junior, who was still thumping the old piano as though his life depended upon it, was the one person present who saw nothing of what was going on; and he suspected nothing amiss; he had been too busy with his notes to attend even to the words. Every other eye was fixed upon the dancing girl; every other forehead was wet with a cold perspiration. But Mr. Appleton was so far unconsciously infected with the spirit of the proceedings that he was now playing that banjo accompaniment at about double his rate of starting. And the ornaments were rattling on mantelpiece and table and bracket, and a small vase fell with a crash into the fender—Missy had brought it down with the toe of one high-heeled shoe. Then with a whoop she was at the door. The door was flung open. There was a flutter of white and a flare of crimson, neither quite in the room nor precisely in the passage. The door was slammed, and the girl gone.

Mr. Teesdale was the first to rise. His face was very pale and agitated. He crossed the room and laid a hand upon the shoulder of Mr. Appleton, who was still pounding with all his heart at the old piano. Appleton stopped and revolved on the music-stool with a face of very comical ignorance and amazement. Mr. Teesdale went on to the door and turned the handle. It did not open. The key had been turned upon the outer side.