From out the most spare and hungry room in all this spare and hungry house there came, one morning, the tremulous tones of old Gride’s voice, as it feebly chirruped forth the fag end of some forgotten song, of which the burden ran:

Ta—ran—tan—too,
Throw the old shoe,
And may the wedding be lucky!

"Not yet. But where are you off to?"

‘Dear me!’ said Nicholas, ‘it’s extraordinary.’