Berry got his banjo down from the wall, where Miss Swan allowed him to keep it as bric-a-brac, and began to tune it.
“I don't believe it agrees with this banjoseph being an object of virtue,” he said. “What shall it be, ladies? Something light and gay, adapted to disperse gloomy reflections?” He played a fandango. “How do you like that? It has a tinge of melancholy in it, and yet it's lively too, as a friend of mine used to say about the Dead March.”
“Was his name Berry?” asked Miss Swan.
“Not Alonzo W., Jr.,” returned Berry tranquilly, and he and Miss Swan began to joke together.
“I know a friend of Mr. Evans's,” said Lemuel to Miss Carver. “Mr. Sewell. Have you ever heard him preach?”
“Oh yes, indeed. We go nearly every Sunday morning.”
“I nearly always go in the evening now,” said Lemuel. “Don't you like him?”
“Yes,” said the girl. “There's something about him—I don't know what—that doesn't leave you feeling how bad you are, but makes you want to be better. He helps you so; and he's so clear. And he shows that he's had all the mean and silly thoughts that you have. I don't know—it's as if he were talking for each person alone.”
“Yes, that is exactly the way I feel!” Lemuel was proud of the coincidence. He said, to commend himself further to Miss Carver, “I have just been round to see him.”
“I should think you would value his acquaintance beyond anything,” said the girl. “Is he just as earnest and simple as he is in the pulpit?”