Mr. Pindar, as has already been said, was to call on Miss Wax that evening for her answer; but Mr. Homer was before him, for this was Friday evening, which the little gentleman invariably spent with his life-long friend. Punctually at a quarter before eight he appeared, and found Miss Wax ready for him, sitting under the portrait, with her elbow resting on the little table. Her silk dress, of the kind called chiné, displayed bunches of apple-blossoms on a pale purple ground; she wore a scarf of rose-colored crape, and a profusion of hair jewelry. Mr. Homer, as he advanced to greet her, made his usual mental comment that she was an elegant female, and pressed her hand cordially; Miss Bethia returned the pressure, and inquired anxiously for his health. "I trust you are feeling better, Homer," she said, kindly; "all this excitement is very disturbing to you, I am sure. But it will soon be over now."

Mr. Homer sighed, as he took his accustomed seat. "Either it or I must soon be over, Miss Bethia," he said, mournfully. "I feel that I cannot much longer cope with – a – the present circumstances. I am aware that I should have more fortitude; more – a – longanimity; but – as the lamented Keats has it, 'Misery most drowningly doth sing in my lone ear.' The cup of joy, Miss Bethia, has become a poisoned chalice. The firmament outblackens Erebus; the brooks utter a gorgon voice. Many phrases which I have formerly considered as mere poetical ebullitions, – a – wafts of the Wings of Poesy, if I may so express myself, – now seem to me the fit expression, – a – realization, – a – I may say concretion, – of my present state of mind. I thought I appreciated the great Keats before, but – " He waved his hands and shook his head in speechless emotion.

"Can you not dismiss the subject from your mind for a time, Homer?" asked Miss Bethia, soothingly. "Your studies have always sustained you, and have been of great benefit, I am sure, to your friends as well as yourself. Have you written any more of the Epic, the 'Death of Heliogabalus'? I was in hopes you might have another scene to read to me this evening."

Mr. Homer shook his head. "I have not touched the Epic," he said, "since – since the events which have recently concatenated, if I may so express myself. I sometimes think that I shall never touch it again, Miss Bethia."

"Oh, don't say that, Homer!" Miss Wax protested; but the little gentleman went on, with an agitated wave.

"I sometimes feel as if the Muse had deserted me; had – a – ceased to gild with her smile the – shall I say the peaks of my fancy? I have endeavored to woo her back. My brother Pindar is most anxious that I should write an – an ode – for this celebration which he is planning; but the numbers in which I have been in the habit of lisping, and which – I may say to you, my valued friend – were wont in happier days to flow, – to – a – meander, – to – a – babble o'er Pirene's sands, with ease and – and alacrity, now hesitate; – a – reluctate; – a – refuse the meed of melody which – which the occasion demands. My brother Pindar, – you have seen him, Miss Bethia?"

"Oh, yes!" said Miss Wax, softly. "He was here yesterday. He asked – he was so good as to invite me to appear in the Festival Procession as – as Minerva."

Mr. Homer looked up eagerly. "And you replied?" he asked.

"I asked for time to consider," said Miss Wax, looking down. "I need not say to you, Homer, that it is not easy to refuse Pindar's first request, after so many years of absence;" she sighed gently; "but – but reflection has convinced me that it would not be altogether – shall I say suitable? I have never appeared in public, Homer, and I hardly feel – "

She paused, for Mr. Homer was waving his hands and opening and shutting his mouth in great agitation.

"Precisely so!" he cried. "Oh, very much so indeed, my dear friend. It is an unspeakable consolation to find that you share my sentiments on this subject. May I, Miss Bethia, – with friendship's key, – unlock, so to speak, the counsels of my – my bleeding breast? We are old friends: we twa – if I may quote Burns in this connection – ha' paidl't i' the burn, – I speak metaphorically, my dear lady, as I need not assure you, – frae mornin' sun till dine; the poets refuse occasionally the bonds of grammar, and both rhyme and metre require the verb in this instance, as you will readily perceive, even though – "

Mr. Homer waved the subject to its conclusion, and hurried on: "You have also known Pindar from childhood, and have always felt – may I not say kindly, toward the wayward but high-souled lad?"

"Oh, yes!" murmured Miss Bethia, softly, with another gentle sigh.

"This being so," Mr. Homer went on, "I may say to you without hesitation that this whole matter of the celebration is a – is a nightmare to me! I have led a secluded life, Bethia, as befits a votary of the Muse. Blest with a limited but sufficient number of congenial friends, principally ladies, – though William Jaquith and Thomas Candy have been as sons to me of late, as sons, – I have kept, Miss Bethia, the noiseless tenor of my way, – the expression is Gray's, as you are well aware, and is commonly misquoted, even tenor being the customary, though wholly incorrect version; – a – where was I? Oh, yes, as I was about to say, I have kept the noiseless tenor of my way, in peace and pleasantness, hitherto.

"'For indeed,' as the lamented Keats observes in an early poem which is too little known:

"'For indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)
To possess but a span of the hour of leisure
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.'

That peculiar pleasure, Miss Bethia, has been mine up to the present time. My brother Pindar's course has been far different. At an early age, as you are aware, he sought the maddening throng; the – a – busy hum; the – a – in short, the roaring mart. I understand that much of his time has been devoted to music, and the remainder to histrionic art. He is permanently employed, as I understand, at a – a metropolitan place of amusement, where he occasionally takes part in Shakespearian representations (he has played the Ghost in 'Hamlet,' he tells me), and at other times performs upon the – in short, the kettledrums. You will readily perceive, my dear friend, that such a life conduces to the development of ideas which are discrepant; – a – divergent from, – a – devoid of commensurability with, the genius loci, the spirit which hovers, or has hitherto hovered, over Elm – I would say Quahaug. Miss Bethia, we are not a dramatic community. With the exception of Mrs. Jarley's Wax Works, some thirty years ago, and an Old Folks' Concert at a somewhat later period, I am unable to recall any occurrence of a – of a histrionic nature in our – shall I say midst? And now, – Miss Bethia, I love my brother tenderly, and am anxious, deeply anxious, to respond to the feeling, the – a – propendency, the – kindling of affection's torch, which has led him to seek his early home. I also respect, – a – revere, – a – entertain the loftiest sentiments in regard to the Muse; but when I am asked to appear in public, clad in draperies which – in short, of domestic origin," – he waved further detail delicately away, – "and crowned with bays, I – Miss Bethia, I assure you my spirit faints within me. Nor can I feel that the proposed demonstration would in any way have commended itself to my cousin Marcia. It is borne in upon me – strenuously, I may say – that, if my cousin Marcia were present at this time in the – a – fleshly tabernacle, she would receive this whole matter in a spirit of – levity; of – a – derision; of – a – contumely. Am I wrong in this supposition, Miss Bethia?"

"I feel positive that you are right, Homer!" said Miss Wax. "I speak with conviction. In fact, it was the thought of – of Her we honor," – she glanced at the trophy with an introductory wave, – "that brought me to a decision on the point. I do feel for you, Homer, and share with you the distress of having to – to deny Pindar anything he desires. He will be here soon, and perhaps if we speak to him gently on the subject, he may see it in the light in which it presents itself to us. Probably this side has not been suggested to him." (Has it not? Oh, Miss Prudence! Miss Prudence!) "I think that if we compose our thoughts to a greater degree of calm, we may have more effect. A little music, Homer?"

Mr. Homer put his hand to his head with a sigh. "Miss Bethia," he said, "a little music would be balm to the thirsty soul; – a – wings to the rainbow-hued spirit; a – oil which runs down the – " He waved the rest of the simile away. "I thank you, my elegant and valued friend. May I conduct you to the instrument?"

It was a pleasant sight to see Mr. Homer conducting Miss Bethia Wax to the instrument. After a profound bow (his feet in the first position in dancing), he held out his hand; she laid the tips of her long fingers delicately in it, and, thus supported, glided across the room; a courtesy of thanks, a bow of acknowledgment, and she sank gracefully on the music-stool, while Mr. Homer returned to his favorite chair, drew a long breath, and sank back with folded hands and closed eyes.

Miss Wax's instrument was one of Mr. Homer's chief sources of inspiration, and I must give it a word of description, for perhaps there never was another precisely like it. Tommy Candy called it a barrel-organ, and indeed it was not wholly unlike an idealized barrel of polished rosewood, standing erect on four slender legs. The front was decorated with flutings of red silk; the wood was inlaid with flowers and arabesques in mother-of-pearl. Beneath the silk flutings appeared an ivory handle, and it was by turning this handle that Miss Bethia "performed." "Cecilia's Bouquet" was the name inscribed on the front in flourishing gilt letters; and Miss Bethia had often been told that, when playing on the instrument, she reminded her hearers of the saint of that name. It was perhaps on this account that she was in the habit of assuming a rapt expression at such times, her head thrown back, her eyes raised to the level of the cornice. Thus seated and performing, Miss Bethia was truly a pleasant sight; and the melodies that came faltering out from the old music-box (for really it was nothing else!) were as pensive, mild, and innocent as the good lady herself. "The Maiden's Prayer," "The Sorrowful Shepherd," "Cynthia's Roundelay," and "The Princess Charlotte's Favorite;" these were among them, I remember, but there were twelve airs, and it took quite half an hour to play them all through.

On this occasion, long before the half-hour was over, Mr. Homer's brow had cleared, and his face grown as placid as Miss Bethia's own. "The Princess Charlotte's Favorite" was also his (a most melancholy air I always thought it, as if the poor princess had foreseen her early death, and bewailed it, a Jephthah's Daughter in hoop and powder), and he followed it with pensive pleasure, bowing his head and waving his hands in time to the music, and occasionally joining in the melody with a thin but sweet falsetto. "Ta-ta, ta-tee, ta-ta, ta-tum!" warbled Mr. Homer, and Miss Bethia's gentle heart rejoiced to hear him.

The two friends were so absorbed that they did not hear the door-bell, – indeed, it rang in the kitchen, and was a subdued tinkle at that, – nor Peggy's steps as she went to answer the call; and it was only when the "Princess Charlotte's Favorite" had faltered to its dismal conclusion that Mr. Homer, chancing to raise his eyes, saw his brother standing in the doorway. The vision was a disconcerting one. Mr. Pindar stood with his arms folded in his little cloak, his head bent forward, peering up through his eyebrows with a keen and suspicious look. Thus he stood for an instant; but, on meeting his brother's eyes, he flung up both arms as if in invocation, – whether of blessing or malediction was not clear to Mr. Homer's perturbed gaze, – the cloak fluttered in batlike sweeps, and he was gone.

Mr. Homer sprang to his feet with an exclamation of dismay; and Miss Bethia, whose back had been turned to the door, rose also in wonder and distress. "What is the matter, Homer?" she asked. "You appear disturbed. Is – is any one there?" she added, seeing his look still fixed on the empty doorway.

"It was my brother!" replied Mr. Homer. "It was Pindar. He was apparently – moved; – a – agitated; – a – under stress of emotion. I fear he is ill, Miss Bethia; I must hasten after him."

"Pindar ill!" cried Miss Bethia. "Oh, Homer, bring him back, will you not? bring him back, and let me give him some of my Raspberry Restorative! Do hasten!"

Mr. Homer promised to return if it were possible, and hurried away, leaving his hostess wringing her hands and uttering plaintive murmurs. He hastened along the quiet street. The moon was up, and he could see a figure fluttering on ahead of him, with waving cloak and hasty, disordered steps.

"Pindar!" cried Mr. Homer. "My dear brother! wait for me, I implore you. It is I, Homer; I entreat you to pause!"

The figure wavered, halted; finally turned round, and stood with folded arms till Mr. Homer hurried up, anxious and breathless.

"Are you ill, Pindar?" cried the little gentleman. "Some sudden seizure, my dear brother? I am truly distressed: let me support you!"

But Mr. Pindar waved him aside with a lofty gesture. "I require no support, Brother!" he said. "My corporal envelope is robust, I am obliged to you."

"Then why – why this sudden appearance and disappearance?" asked Mr. Homer, bewildered. "Miss Wax was expecting you; we were both expecting you, sir!"

"Were you?" said Mr. Pindar, bitterly. "I should hardly have thought it. I judged that I intruded, sir. It appeared to me that tender passages were in progress. I inferred that the advent of the Wanderer was unwelcome, sir, unwelcome."

Mr. Homer attempted to speak, but Mr. Pindar waved him off, and hurried on, a real feeling struggling through the pompous structure of his sentences. "It would appear that I was in error, sir, when I requested you to compose an ode. I should have demanded an epithalamium; flute and clarionet, sir:

"Tweedle, tweedle, toodle turn,
Clash the cymbal, bang the drum!
Cupid and his antic choir
Sing for Homer and Bethia!

But you might have told me, Homer; you might have told me, sir!"

Mr. Homer Hollopeter blushed very red all over; if it is discreet even to allude to Mr. Homer's toes, I am quite sure that even they must have grown rosy. He looked gravely at his brother, who was waving his cloak in great excitement.

"My dear brother," he said, slowly, "it – I – I fail to find words in which to express the – the —enormousness of your misconception. I regard Miss Wax, sir, as a sister, an esteemed and valued sister."

At the place where Mr. Homer had overtaken his brother, stood a watering-trough, a hollowed section of a huge oak-tree, through which ran a tiny crystal stream. The companion oak, still vigorous, overshadowed the trough, making a pleasant circle of shade, and around this oak ran a rustic seat. It was a favorite gathering-place of the village boys, but now the boys were in bed, and all was still save for the gurgle of the little rill as it babbled along the trough.

To Mr. Homer's utter amazement and discomfiture, Mr. Pindar now flung himself down upon this seat, and, pulling out a large blue cotton handkerchief, buried his face in it and burst into tears.

"Nobody is glad to see me!" cried Mr. Pindar, sobbing violently. "Everybody thinks I am mad. Prudence Pardon called me a – a gonoph, and refused to make tunics for the Village Elders. A horrible fat woman – rightly named Weight —horresco referens!– wished to be Goddess of Liberty, and, when I shrank appalled, she robbed me of the pretty child who should have been my Psyche. I am – unappreciated, sir. I am mocked at and derided. The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart – I returned to benefit my native heath: to cause – blossoms of histrionic art to spring up in the – arid pathways – oyster shells!" – he indicated by a wave the white and glittering paths which led to one and another silent house, and which are indeed the pride of the village. "I have piped to everybody, and nobody will dance, except – hideous persons who squint. I came for comfort and sympathy to Bethia Wax, the playmate of my early days; I found – " He waved his arms with a gesture of despair. "And I am so tired of playing the kettledrum!" said the poor gentleman; and he wept afresh.

Mr. Homer sat down by his brother's side, and laid his hand on his shoulder. "Don't cry!" he said. "Don't cry, Pindy! Mother wouldn't like to have you cry."

His voice, faltered on the long-unspoken diminutive; but, at the sound of it, Mr. Pindar, still holding the handkerchief to his eyes with his right hand, held out his left; Mr. Homer grasped it, and the two sat silent, hand in hand, while the little stream trickled cheerfully along, and the black leaf-shadows flickered on the white road.

Mr. Homer opened and shut his mouth several times, and patted his brother's hand, before he spoke again. At length he said, very gently:

"My dear boy, my dear fellow, you are unnerved. Compose yourself, compose yourself! I also have been sadly unnerved, Pindy. An hour ago I could have mingled my tears with yours freely, sir, freely. But music hath charms, as you are aware, to soothe the – Savagery is far from my breast at the present time, sir, but the quotation is too familiar to require elucidation. Our friend Miss Wax has been performing upon the instrument, and an hour spent in her society, when thus employed, is invariably soothing to the wounded spirit. I wish, my dear brother, that you had come earlier in the evening."

Mr. Pindar groaned, and dried his eyes, but made no reply. Mr. Homer, pausing, looked carefully about him, as if struck by a sudden thought.

"Pindar," he said, in an altered tone, "do you know where we are sitting? Look about you!"

Mr. Pindar looked around, then up at the tree which bent friendly over them. "It is the oak-seat!" he exclaimed. "The oak-seat and the watering-trough. Muffled drums! Enter Homeless Wanderer, weeping."

"Do you remember the day when Silas Candy ducked Ephraim Weight?" said Mr. Homer, disregarding the last remark. "We were sitting here, Pindar, and we did not interfere. I have sometimes reflected that it was a – an error, sir; a – a faltering in the way; a – a dereliction from the – a – star-y-pointing path; but we were young, sir, and Ephraim was – shall I say unattractive? But – Pindy, when Silas came along – I remember it as if it were yesterday – I had just been cutting some initials in the tree. Upon my word, they are here still!" With a trembling finger he pointed out some half-obliterated letters. "B. H., sir; do you see them? Bethia Hollopeter!"

Mr. Pindar nodded gloomily, and, putting away the blue handkerchief, crossed his arms on his breast. "I see them, sir," he said. "Why turn the dagger in the wound? I see them!"

"What was my thought, Brother," Mr. Homer went on, growing more and more animated, "when I made those letters; when I – a – wounded the oaken breast which – which – not precisely nourished, but certainly cheered and comforted me? Brother, I fancied Bethia as your bride. Stay! hear me!" as Mr. Pindar made a hasty gesture of dissent. "I knew later that – that your affections, like my own, were placed elsewhere; but – but Fate, sir, planted an arrow, of a highly barbed description, in our twin breasts. No more of that. Miss Bethia Wax, sir, has been the friend, the elegant and valued friend, of my entire life. Since the lamented death of our cousins, Phœbe and Vesta, and recently the irreparable loss I have sustained in the death of Cousin Marcia, we – Miss Bethia and I – have been brought into yet closer and more sympathetic companionship. Aside from the devoted tenderness of Thomas and William, and the – the faithful, if occasionally violent ministrations of Direxia Hawkes, Miss Bethia has been my chief stay and comfort in these troublous days. But I assure you, sir, with my hand on my heart," – Mr. Homer suited the action to the word, – "that nothing of a tender nature has ever passed, or will ever pass, between me and my elegant and valued friend. Yet once more hear me, Brother! It is my firm belief, Pindar, that one image, and one only, has remained since youth implanted in – in that bosom, sir, to which I allude with the highest respect; that image, sir, I believe to be yours!"

Mr. Homer paused, much moved. Mr. Pindar waved his cloak in protest, but his countenance brightened perceptibly.

"Not so!" he murmured. "Not so! Thunder. Exit Homeless Wanderer, pursued by furies. Brother, I will return to my hated task. Enough! I thank you, but I go."

"Brother, I implore you not so to do!" cried Mr. Homer, earnestly. "I believe that other and happier things are in store for you. I have a vision, sir, of a home replete with elegant comfort. Miss Bethia, though not opulent, is possessed of a comfortable competence – though Mammon is far from my thoughts!" cried Mr. Homer, blushing again. "A home, I say, sir, brightened by the society of – of Woman, and by every evidence of a refined and cultivated taste. My dear brother, return with me now to the – the bower, if I may so express myself, of our esteemed and valued friend. Miss Bethia urged, I may say, implored, me to bring you back."

"Not so!" murmured Mr. Pindar. "Alarums and excursions. Exit – "

But Mr. Homer interrupted him, a sudden fire shining in his mild eyes. "Brother Pindar," he cried, "you have many times alluded, since your return, to the Dramatic Moment; you have commented upon the absence of the dramatic element in my composition. But, sir, it is borne in upon me strongly at this instant that a Dramatic Moment is now striking in – in your life and that of our esteemed and valued friend. As you yourself would observe, hark to it, sir! it strikes; – a – resounds; – a – larums, sir, larums."

The two brothers had risen, and stood facing each other in the moonlight. They waved their arms with an identical gesture; never had they looked so alike. "It larums!" repeated Mr. Pindar, solemnly. Suddenly he seized his brother's hand, and motioned him forward.

"Flourish and a sennet!" he cried. "Possible joy-bells! Brother, set on!"