“Surrey!”

“Yes.”

“There’s a pretty girl.”

No answer.

“There! over yonder.  Third seat, second row.  See her?  Pretty?”

“Very pretty.”

“Miss—­Miss—­what’s her name?  O, Miss Perry played that last thing very well for a school-girl, eh?”

“Very well.”

“Admirable room this, for hearing; rare quality with chapels and halls; architects in planning generally tax ingenuity how to confuse sound.  Now these girls don’t make a great noise, yet you can distinguish every word,—­can’t you?”

No response.

“I say, can’t you?”

“Every word.”

Tom drew a long breath.

“Professor Hale’s a sensible old fellow; I like the way he conducts this school.” (Mem.  Tom didn’t know a thing about it.) “Carries it on excellently.”  A pause.

Silence.

“Fine-looking, too.  A man’s physique has a deal to do with his success in the world.  If he carries a letter of recommendation in his face, people take him on trust to begin with; and if he’s a big fellow, like the Professor yonder, he imposes on folks awfully; they pop down on their knees to him, and clear the track for him, as if he had a right to it all.  Bless me!  I never thought of that before,—­it’s the reason you and I have got on so swimmingly,—­is it not, now?  Certainly.  You think so?  Of course.”

“Of course,”—­sedately and gravely spoken.

Tom groaned, for, with a face kind and bright, he was yet no beauty; while if Surrey had one crowning gift in this day of fast youths and self-satisfied Young America, it was that of modesty with regard to himself and any gifts and graces nature had blessed him withal.

“Clara has a nice voice.”

“Very nice.”

“She is to sing, do you know?”

“I know.”

“Do you know when?”

No reply.

“She sings the next piece.  Are you ready to listen?”

“Ready.”

“Good Lord!” cried Tom, in despair, “the fellow has lost his wits.  He has turned parrot; he has done nothing but repeat my words for me since he sat here.  He’s an echo.”

“Echo of nothingness?” queried the parrot, smilingly.

“Ah, you’ve come to yourself, have you?  Capital! now stay awake.  There’s Clara to sing directly, and you are to cheer her, and look as if you enjoyed it, and throw her that bouquet when I tell you, and let her think it’s a fine thing she has been doing; for this is a tremendous affair to her, poor child, of course.”

“How bright and happy she is!  You will laugh at me, Tom, and indeed I don’t know what has come over me, but somehow I feel quite sad, looking at those girls, and wondering what fate and time have in store for them.”

“Sunshine and bright hours.”

“The day cometh, and also the night,”—­broke in the clear voice that was reading a selection from the Scriptures.