“Very well, Uncle Lance, I’ll do as you tell me.”

“That’s the way to do it, my dear.  At least, when you make ready, recollect, not that you are facing a multitude, but that you are saving a child’s Christian faith; when you prepare, that you have to do with nobody but Gerald and me; when it comes to ’One, two, three, and away,’ mind nothing but your music and your cue.”

“But the dress, uncle?”

“The dress is all safe at the pavilion.  You must come up and rehearse as soon as you have eaten your breakfast.  Oh, you don’t know where.  Well, one of us will come and fetch you.  Good girl, Francie!  Keep up your heart.  By the bye, which is Fernan’s dressing-room?  I must prepare him.”

That question was answered, for Sir Ferdinand’s door into the corridor was opened.

“Lance!  I thought I heard your voice.”

“Yes, here’s a pretty kettle of fish!  Our Miranda has absconded, poor child.  Happy thing you brought down Francie; nobody else could take the part at such short notice.  You must pacify Marilda, silence scruples, say it is her duty to Church, country, and family.  Can’t stop!”

“Lance, explain-—do!  Music-mad as usual!” cried Sir Ferdinand, pursuing him down-stairs in despair.

“I must be music-mad; the only chance of keeping sane just now.  There’s an awful predicament!  Can’t go into it now, but you shall hear all when this is over.”

Wherewith Lance was lost to view, and presently burst into St. Kenelm’s Vicarage, to the relief of poor Mr. Flight, who had tried to solace himself with those three words as best he might.

“All right.  My niece, Franceska Vanderkist, who took the part before, and who has a very good soprano, will do it better as to voice, if not so well as to acting, as the Little Butterfly.”

“Is she here?”

“Yes, by good luck.  I shall have her up to the pavilion to rehearse her for the afternoon.”

“Mr. Underwood, no words can say what we owe you.  You are the saving of our Church education.”

Lance laughed at the magniloquent thanks, and asked how the intimation had been received.

It appeared that on the previous evening O’Leary had come to him, and, in swaggering fashion, had demanded twenty pounds as payment for his step-daughter’s performance at the masque.  Mr. Flight had replied that she had freely promised her services gratuitously for the benefit of the object in view.  At this the man had scoffed, talked big about her value and the meanness of parsons, and threatened to withdraw her.  Rather weakly the clergyman had said the question should be considered, but that he could do nothing without the committee, and O’Leary had departed, uttering abuse.

This morning “Sweetie Bob,” the errand-boy, had arrived crying, with tidings that the shop and house were shut up; nobody answered his knock; Mother Butterfly had “cut” in the night, gone off, he believed, with the circus, and Miss Lydia too; and there was two-and-ninepence owing to him, besides his-—his-—his character!