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"Rubbish, aunt!" said Miss Lister, who had slipped into an empty chair near Myra."I agree with Miss Champion about 'services of song,' and I don't care for any music but the best."Jane turned to her quickly, with a cordial smile and her most friendly manner."Ah, but you must come," she said."We will be victimised together.And perhaps Dal and Lawson will succeed in converting us to the cult of the 'service of song.' And anyway it will be amusing to have Dal explain it to us.He will need the courage of his convictions.""Talking of something 'really exciting in the way of music,'" said Pauline Lister, "we had it on board when we came over.There was a nice friendly crowd on board the Arabic, and they arranged a concert for half-past eight on the Thursday evening.We were about two hundred miles off the coast of Ireland, and when we came up from dinner we had run into a dense fog.At eight o'clock they started blowing the fog-horn every half-minute, and while the fog-horn was sounding you couldn't hear yourself speak.However, all the programmes were printed, and it was our last night on board, so they concluded to have the concert all the same.Down we all trooped into the saloon, and each item of that programme was punctuated by the stentorian BOO of the fog-horn every thirty seconds.You never heard anything so cute as the way it came in, right on time.A man with a deep bass voice sang ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP, and each time he reached the refrain, 'And calm and peaceful is my sle-eep,' BOOwent the fog-horn, casting a certain amount of doubt on our expectations of peaceful sleep that night, anyway.Then a man with a sweet tenor sang OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT, and the fog-horn showed us just how oft, namely, every thirty seconds.But the queerest effect of all was when a girl had to play a piano-forte solo.It was something of Chopin's, full of runs and trills and little silvery notes.She started all right; but when she was half-way down the first page, BOO went the fog-horn, a longer blast than usual.We saw her fingers flying, and the turning of the page, but not a note could we hear; and when the old horn stopped and we could hear the piano again, she had reached a place half-way down the second page, and we hadn't heard what led to it.My! it was funny.That went on all through.She was a plucky girl to stick to it.We gave her a good round of applause when she had finished, and the fog-horn joined in and drowned us.It was the queerest concert experience Iever had.But we all enjoyed it.Only we didn't enjoy that noise keeping right on until five o'clock next morning"Jane had turned in her chair, and listened with appreciative interest while the lovely American girl talked, watching, with real delight, her exquisite face and graceful gestures, and thinking how Dal must enjoy looking at her when she talked with so much charm and animation.She glanced down, trying to see the admiration in his eyes; but his head was bent, and he was apparently absorbed in the occupation of tracing the broguing of her shoes with the long stalk of a chestnut leaf.For a moment she watched the slim brown hand, as carefully intent on this useless task, as if working on a canvas;then she suddenly withdrew her foot, feeling almost vexed with him for his inattention and apparent indifference.

Garth sat up instantly."It must have been awfully funny," he said.

"And how well you told it.One could hear the fog-horn, and see the dismayed faces of the performers.Like an earthquake, a fog-horn is the sort of thing you don't ever get used to.It sounds worse every time.Let's each tell the funniest thing we remember at a concert.Ionce heard a youth recite Tennyson's Charge of the Light Brigade with much dramatic action.But he was extremely nervous, and got rather mixed.In describing the attitude of mind of the noble six hundred, he told us impressively that it was""'Theirs not to make reply;

Theirs not to do or die;

Theirs BUT TO REASON WHY.'"