When the collation was over, and every child provided with a biscuit, Mrs. Watkinson said to Mrs. Morland:  “Now, ma’am, you shall have some music from my daughter Jane, who is one of Mr. Bangwhanger’s best scholars.”

Jane Watkinson sat down to the piano and commenced a powerful piece of six mortal pages, which she played out of time and out of tune; but with tremendous force of hands; notwithstanding which, it had, however, the good effect of putting most of the children to sleep.

To the Morlands the evening had seemed already five hours long.  Still it was only half past ten when Jane was in the midst of her piece.  The guests had all tacitly determined that it would be best not to let Mrs. Watkinson know their intention to go directly from her house to Mrs. St. Leonard’s party; and the arrival of their carriage would have been the signal of departure, even if Jane’s piece had not reached its termination.  They stole glances at the clock on the mantel.  It wanted but a quarter of eleven, when Jane rose from the piano, and was congratulated by her mother on the excellence of her music.  Still no carriage was heard to stop; no doorbell was heard to ring.  Mrs. Morland expressed her fears that the coachman had forgotten to come for them.

“Has he been paid for bringing you here?” asked Mrs. Watkinson.

“I paid him when we came to the door,” said Edward.  “I thought perhaps he might want the money for some purpose before he came for us.”

“That was very kind in you, sir,” said Mrs. Watkinson, “but not very wise.  There’s no dependence on any coachman; and perhaps as he may be sure of business enough this rainy night he may never come at all—­being already paid for bringing you here.”

Now, the truth was that the coachman had come at the appointed time, but the noise of Jane’s piano had prevented his arrival being heard in the back parlor.  The Irish girl had gone to the door when he rang the bell, and recognized in him what she called “an ould friend.”  Just then a lady and gentleman who had been caught in the rain came running along, and seeing a carriage drawing up at a door, the gentleman inquired of the driver if he could not take them to Rutgers Place.  The driver replied that he had just come for two ladies and a gentleman whom he had brought from the Astor House.

“Indeed and Patrick,” said the girl who stood at the door, “if I was you I’d be after making another penny to-night.  Miss Jane is pounding away at one of her long music pieces, and it won’t be over before you have time to get to Rutgers and back again.  And if you do make them wait awhile, where’s the harm?  They’ve a dry roof over their heads, and I warrant it’s not the first waiting they’ve ever had in their lives; and it won’t be the last neither.”

“Exactly so,” said the gentleman; and regardless of the propriety of first sending to consult the persons who had engaged the carriage, he told his wife to step in, and following her instantly himself, they drove away to Rutgers Place.