96 Tom Seven Years Old.

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the wrong notes, and which are the right
ones ?”

He could see no difference. All the white
looked the same white, and all the black the
same black. |

“T can’t talk in the middle of my tune,”
said Archie. “I'll have to finish it after.
Now don’t you hear the difference? When-
ever there’s a horrid noise, there’s a wrong
note; and whenever there’s a nice noise, it’s a
right one.”

“T see!” cried Tom, after a minute; “you
mustn’t strike them all down together, any-
how. The notes want to choose which they
will go with. It is like mixing potato-soup
and treacle. They’re delicious separate, but
would be very nasty eaten together. I didn’t
know the notes were so particular.”

“Now I’m going back to my tune,” said
Archie. “ Don’t talk, or I shall have to begin
again.”

“Stop!” cried Tom, suddenly remember-
ing his promise; “stop before yoy begin. I
want to ask you a question. Are you happy?”