At that moment the old gentleman perceived that he was watched, and saluting Mary Ellen gallantly, he called out,—
'Good morning, madam!'
Mary Ellen, covered with confusion, drew back behind the curtain. I was about to make a suitable reply when I saw Mrs. Mortimer Pegg, herself, emerge from her house with a very red face, and resolutely grasp her father-in-law’s arm. She spoke to him in a rapid undertone, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he followed her meekly into the house.
How I sympathized with him! I knew only too well the humiliation experienced by the helpless male when overbearing woman drags him ignominiously from his harmless recreation. A bond of understanding seemed to be established between us at once.
The voice of Mary Ellen broke in on my reverie. She was teasing Angel to sing.
'Aw, give us a chune, Master Angel, before th' missus gets back! There’s a duck! I 'll give ye a pocketful of raisins as sure’s fate!'
Angel was the possessor of a flute-like treble, and he could strum some sort of accompaniment on the piano to any song. It was Mary Ellen’s delight on a Saturday morning to pour forth her pent-up feelings in one of the popular songs, with Angel to keep her on the tune and thump a chord or two.
It was a risky business. But The Seraph mounted guard at the window while I pressed my nose against the glass case which held the stuffed birds, and wondered if by chance any of them had come from South America where father was.
Tum-te-tum-te-tum, strummed Angel.
'Casey would waltz with the strawberry blonde,
And the—band—played—on.'