"Nonsense!" said his lordship. "We will not be denied, Mr. Moore."

"Then since I 'm not Saint Peter, I 'll have to yield. What shall it be?"

A short discussion followed at the organ, and when this had been settled by d.y.k.e and Farrell choosing "The Shamrock," Moore, calmly paying no attention to such a detail as that, proceeded to sing his latest poem, written only that morning in honor of Sir Percival.

Nothing could have been more to the point, for at this very moment the baronet was urging the girl to ratify her parent's decision in regard to the proposed move to London, painting for her in vivid words what a Successful career at Drury Lane Theatre would mean, at the same time dwelling upon her father's opportunity for advancement as poet and scholar.

"Oh! weep for the hour, When to Eveleen's bower The Lord of the Valley with false vows came; The moon hid her light From the heavens that night, And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

"The clouds pa.s.sed soon From the chaste cold moon, And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame; But none will see the day When the clouds shall pa.s.s away, Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.

"The white snow lay On the narrow pathway When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor; And many a deep print On the white snow's tint Showed the track of his footsteps to Eveleen's door.

"The next sun's ray Soon melted away Every trace on the path where the false Lord came; But there's a light above Which alone can remove That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame."

Moore's voice died away melodiously in the last plaintive note.

"A very pretty song, Mr. Moore. It tells a beautiful story and points a splendid moral," said Lord Brooking.

"Yes, my lord," answered Moore, glancing toward Bessie. "It shows the folly of a poor girl in believing aught told her by a n.o.bleman. It is as true nowadays as it was then."

"Oh, Tom," said the girl, tremulously. "It is beautiful. Is it not, Sir Percival?"

"Oh, very, very," replied the baronet. "Extremely so. I congratulate you, Mr. Moore."

"Have you reason to do so, Sir Percival?" asked Moore.

His question was answered immediately, for Bessie turned toward the gentleman addressed.

"I thank you, Sir Percival," she said, "but I fear London is not for such as father and me."

As Moore gave a sigh of relief and turned away, satisfied that he had foiled the baronet in his attempt to entice Bessie from Ireland, Farrell touched him on the arm and led him to one side.

"Will you meet me here, Tom, in half an hour?" he asked.

"Is it important, Terry?" demanded Moore, who intended to devote the rest of the afternoon to courting Bessie.

"It may mean money enough to start you in London."

"The devil!" exclaimed the poet. "I 'll meet you then, for to London I am bound to go, sooner or later."

At this moment Lord Brooking, who had been chatting in a corner with Mr.

d.y.k.e, came forward, followed by the old gentleman.

"Sir Percival," said his lordship, a malicious twinkle in his eye, "Mr.

d.y.k.e has invited us to try a little wine of his own manufacture. You will be charmed, I know."

"A rare variety of grape, Sir Percival," said Mr. d.y.k.e, delightedly.

"In fact, I venture to a.s.sert that you have never tasted such a vintage."

"Very likely not, Mr. d.y.k.e," replied Sir Percival, quite convinced that such was the case, and not at all sure that he might not regard himself as favored by fortune on that account.

"You will honor me?" asked Mr. d.y.k.e, eagerly.

Sir Percival saw he could not refuse without wounding the pride of his would-be host, and therefore yielded politely.

"I shall be delighted, I am sure," he answered. Then, lowering his voice, he murmured in Brooking's ear:

"I owe you one, my lord."

Brooking laughed and took the baronet's arm.

"Come, then," said he, pointing to the door with his walking-stick.

"Perhaps Mr. d.y.k.e will read us another poem," said Sir Percival, hopefully.

"Heaven forbid!" whispered his lordship.

"Could anything be more appropriate?" continued the baronet. "We drink the wine pressed from our friend's own grapes, while we listen to the poetry his muse has sipped from the fountain of the G.o.ds upon Parna.s.sus."

"You should write poetry, Sir Percival," said Mr. d.y.k.e, much flattered.

"I 'll leave that to Mr. Moore," answered the baronet, advancing towards Bessie.

"There are several other things I wish you would leave to me," said the poet.

"No doubt," replied Sir Percival. "My arm, Mistress d.y.k.e?"

"I must decline that honor," said Bessie. "My duties require me to remain here for a while longer."

"I am sorry for that, Mistress d.y.k.e. You will join us, Mr. Moore?"

"I never drink, Sir Percival," replied Moore, endeavoring to look virtuous without much success.

"Indeed?" said the baronet. "You had better begin, sir. Then perhaps you would write less poetry."

Moore failed to find a suitable retort, and therefore mounted the little platform on which stood the blackboard, as Mr. d.y.k.e, Lord Brooking, and Farrell moved towards the door.

"Mistress d.y.k.e," said Sir Percival, "if you can spare a thought this afternoon, perhaps you will oblige me by reconsidering your decision in regard to London?"

"I have quite made up my mind, thank you," answered Bessie, dusting off her desk with her ap.r.o.n. "Simple country folk would be out of place in so great a city."

"Brains and beauty are made welcome everywhere," answered the baronet.

"Moreover, it is a woman's privilege to change her mind."

"Will you be long, my daughter?" asked Mr. d.y.k.e, turning at the door.

"Not very long, father," she answered, demurely. "The--the arithmetic is very difficult for to-morrow, and I must be prepared for the lesson."