She sets her teeth while ignorant and unfeeling neighbors join in the service of song, and confides on her way out of church to anybody who will listen to her that she really thinks it a misfortune to have as fine and true an ear as her own so long as people who do not know the first principle of music _will_ persist in trying to sing.

She has many companions in the persuasion that this part of the worship of the sanctuary should be left altogether to a trained and well-salaried choir.

In the family honored by her residence there is no home music except of her making.

There are, moreover, so many contingencies that may deprive her expected audience of the rich privilege of hearkening to the high emprise of her fingers and voice, that the chances are oftentimes perilously in favor of her dying with all her music in her.
Shall I ever forget, or rally from, the compassionate patronage with which she, a week agone, met my petition for "When sparrows build and the leaves break forth ?" "I never sing ballad music," she said, loftily.

"Indeed I could not do myself justice in anything this evening.