“Reading.”

“Reading what?”

“The Bible.”

“But, I say, can you really?”

“You listen.”  Taffy rested the big Bible on the window-frame; it just had room to lie open between the two mullions—­“Now when they had gone throughout Phrygia and Galatia, and were forbidden of the Holy Ghost to preach the word in Asia, after they were come to Mysia they assayed to go into Bithynia; but the Spirit suffered them not.  And they, passing by Mysia, came down to Troas.  And a vision appeared to Paul in the night. . . .”

“I don’t wonder at it.  Did you ever have the whooping-cough?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ve had it all the winter.  That’s why I’m not allowed in to play with you.  Listen!”

She coughed twice, and wound up with a terrific whoop.

“Now, if you’d only put on your nightshirt and preach, I’d be the congregation and interrupt you with coughing.”

“Very well,” said Taffy, “let’s do it.”

“No; you didn’t suggest it.  I hate boys who have to be told.”

Taffy was huffed, and pretended to return to his book.  By-and-by she called up to him: 

“Tell me, what’s written on this gun of yours?”

“Sevastopol—­that’s a Russian town.  The English took it by storm.”

“What! the soldiers over there?”

“No, they’re only bandsmen; and they’re too young.  But I expect the Colonel was there.  He’s upstairs in the Mayoralty, dining.  He’s quite an old man, but I’ve heard father say he was as brave as a lion when the fighting happened.”

The girl climbed off the gun.

“I’m going to have a look at him,” she said; and turning her back on Taffy, she sauntered off across the square, just as the band struck up the first note of the overture from Semiramide.  A waltz of Strauss followed, and then came a cornet solo by the bandmaster, and a medley of old English tunes.  To all of these Taffy listened.  It had fallen too dark to read, and the boy was always sensitive to music.  Often when he played alone broken phrases and scraps of remembered tunes came into his head and repeated themselves over and over.  Then he would drop his game and wander about restlessly, trying to fix and complete the melody; and somehow in the process the melody always became a story, or so like a story that he never knew the difference.  Sometimes his uneasiness lasted for days together.  But when the story came complete at last—­and this always sprang on him quite suddenly—­he wanted to caper and fling his arms about and sing aloud; and did so, if nobody happened to be looking.

The bandmaster, too, had music, and a reputation for imparting it.  Famous regimental bands contained pupils of his; and his old pupils, when they met, usually told each other stories of his atrocious temper.  But he kept his temper to-night, for his youngsters were playing well, and the small crowd standing quiet.