"Oh, no, sir," said Mary Ann, seriously. "I'll tell her. Besides, she will be glad, because she don't like the canary—she says its singing disturbs her. Her room is next to mine, you know, Mr. Lancelot."
"But you said it doesn't sing much."
"Please, sir, I—I mean in summer," explained Mary Ann, in rosy confusion; "and—and—it'll soon be summer, sir."
"Sw—e-e-t!" burst forth the canary, suddenly, as if encouraged by Mary Ann's opinion.
It was a pretty little bird—one golden yellow from beak to tail, as though it had been dipped in sunshine.
"You see, sir," she cried eagerly, "it's beginning already."
"Yes," said Lancelot, grimly; "but so is Beethoven."
"I'll hang it high up—in the window," said Mary Ann, "where the dog can't get at it."
"Well, I won't take any responsibilities," murmured Lancelot, resignedly.
"No, sir, I'll attend to that," said Mary Ann, vaguely.