Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charlz Franks and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team.

MELODY

by

LAURA E. RICHARDS

1894

TO

THE LOVELY MEMORY

OF

My Sister,

JULIA ROMANA ANAGNOS.

CONTENTS

I. THE CHILD

II. THE DOCTOR

III. ON THE ROAD

IV. ROSIN THE BEAU

V. IN THE CHURCHYARD

VI. THE SERPENT

VII. LOST

VIII. WAITING

IX. BLONDEL

X. DARKNESS

XI. LIGHT

"Minded of nought but peace, and of a child."

SIDNEY LANIER.

CHAPTER I.

THE CHILD.

"Well, there!" said Miss Vesta. "The child has a wonderful gift, that is certain. Just listen to her, Rejoice! You never heard our canary sing like that!"

Miss Vesta put back the shutters as she spoke, and let a flood of light into the room where Miss Rejoice lay. The window was open, and Melody's voice came in like a wave of sound, filling the room with sweetness and life and joy.

"It's like the foreign birds they tell about!" said Miss Rejoice, folding her thin hands, and settling herself on the pillow with an air of perfect content,—"nightingales, and skylarks, and all the birds in the poetry-books. What is she doing, Vesta?"

Miss Rejoice could see part of the yard from her bed. She could see the white lilac-bush, now a mass of snowy plumes, waving in the June breeze; she could see the road, and knew when any of the neighbors went to town or to meeting; but the corner from which the wonderful voice came thrilling and soaring was hidden from her.

Miss Vesta peered out between the muslin curtains. "She's sitting on the steps," she said, "feeding the hens. It is wonderful, the way the creatures know her! That old top-knot hen, that never has a good word for anybody, is sitting in her lap almost. She says she understands their talk, and I really believe she does. 'Tis certain none of them cluck, not a sound, while she's singing. 'Tis a manner of marvel, to my mind."

"It is so," assented Miss Rejoice, mildly. "There, sister! you said you had never heard her sing 'Tara's Harp.' Do listen now!"

Both sisters were silent in delight. Miss Vesta stood at the window, leaning against the frame. She was tall, and straight as an arrow, though she was fifty years old. Her snow-white hair was brushed straight up from her broad forehead; her blue eyes were keen and bright as a sword. She wore a black dress and a white apron; her hands showed the marks of years of serving, and of hard work of all kinds. No one would have thought that she and Miss Rejoice were sisters, unless he had surprised one of the loving looks that sometimes passed between them when they were alone together. The face that lay on the pillow was white and withered, like a crumpled white rose. The dark eyes had a pleading, wistful look, and were wonderfully soft withal. Miss Rejoice had white hair too, but it had a warm yellowish tinge, very different from the clear white of Miss Vesta's. It curled, too, in little ringlets round her beautiful old face. In short, Miss Vesta was splendidly handsome, while no one would think of calling Miss Rejoice anything but lovely. The younger sister lay always in bed. It was some thirty years since she met with the accident which changed her from a rosy, laughing girl into a helpless cripple. A party of pleasure,—gay lads and lasses riding together, careless of anything save the delight of the moment; a sudden leap of the horse, frightened at some obstacle; a fall, striking on a sharp stone,—this was Miss Rejoice's little story. People in the village had forgotten that there was any story; even her own contemporaries almost forgot that Rejoice had ever been other than she was now. But Miss Vesta never forgot. She left her position in the neighboring town, broke off her engagement to the man she loved, and came home to her sister; and they had never been separated for a day since. Once, when the bitter pain began to abate, and the sufferer could realize that she was still a living creature and not a condemned spirit, suffering for the sins of some one else (she had thought of all her own, and could not feel that they were bad enough to merit such suffering, if God was the person she supposed),—in those first days Miss Rejoice ventured to question her sister about her engagement. She was afraid—she did hope the breaking of it had nothing to do with her. "It has to do with myself!" said Miss Vesta, briefly, and nothing more was said. The sisters had lived their life together, without a thought save for each other, till Melody came into their world.

But here is Melody at the door; she shall introduce herself. A girl of twelve years old, with a face like a flower. A broad white forehead, with dark hair curling round it in rings and tendrils as delicate as those of a vine; a sweet, steadfast mouth, large blue eyes, clear and calm under the long dark lashes, but with a something in them which makes the stranger turn to look at them again. He may look several times before he discovers the reason of their fixed, unchanging calm. The lovely mouth smiles, the exquisite face lights up with gladness or softens into sympathy or pity; but the blue eyes do not flash or soften, for Melody is blind.

She came into the room, walking lightly, with a firm, assured tread, which gave no hint of hesitation or uncertainty.

"See, Aunt Joy," she said brightly, "here is the first rose. You were saying yesterday that it was time for cinnamon-roses; now here is one for you." She stooped to kiss the sweet white face, and laid the glowing blossom beside it.

"Thank you, dear," said Miss Rejoice; "I might have known you would find the first blossom, wherever it was. Where was this, now? On the old bush behind the barn?"

"Not in our yard at all," replied the child, laughing. "The smell came to me a few minutes ago, and I went hunting for it. It was in Mrs. Penny's yard, right down by the fence, close, so you could hardly see it."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Miss Vesta. "And she let you have it?"

"Of course," said the child. "I told her it was for Aunt Joy."

"H'm!" said Miss Vesta. "Martha Penny doesn't suffer much from giving, as a rule, to Aunt Joy or anybody else. Did she give it to you at the first asking, hey?"

"Now, Vesta!" remonstrated Miss Rejoice, gently.

"Well, I want to know," persisted the elder sister.

Melody laughed softly. "Not quite the first asking," she said. "She wanted to know if I thought she had no nose of her own. 'I didn't mean that,' said I; 'but I thought perhaps you wouldn't care for it quite as much as Aunt Joy would.' And when she asked why, I said, 'You don't sound as if you would.' Was that rude, Aunt Vesta?"

"Humph!" said Miss Vesta, smiling grimly. "I don't know whether it was exactly polite, but Martha Penny wouldn't know the difference."

The child looked distressed, and so did Miss Rejoice.

"I am sorry," said Melody. "But then Mrs. Penny said something so funny. 'Well, gaffle onto it! I s'pose you're one of them kind as must always have what they want in this world. Gaffle onto your rose, and go 'long! Guess I might be sick enough before anybody 'ud get roses for me!' So I told her I would bring her a whole bunch of our white ones as soon as they were out, and told her how I always tried to get the first cinnamon-rose for Aunt Joy. She said, 'She ain't your aunt, nor mine either.' But she spoke kinder, and didn't seem cross any more; so I took the rose, and here it is."

Miss Vesta was angry. A bright spot burned in her cheeks, and she was about to speak hastily; but Miss Rejoice raised a gentle hand, and motioned her to be silent.

"Martha Penny has a sharp way, Melody," said Miss Rejoice; "but she meant no unkindness, I think. The rose is very sweet," she added; "there are no other roses so sweet, to my mind. And how are the hens this morning, dearie?"

The child clapped her hands, and laughed aloud. "Oh, we have had such fun!" she cried. "Top-knot was very cross at first, and would not let the young speckled hen eat out of the dish with her. So I took one under each arm, and sang and talked to them till they were both in a good humor. That made the Plymouth rooster jealous, and he came and drove them both away, and had to have a petting all by himself. He is such a dear!"

"You do spoil those hens, Melody," said Miss Vesta, with an affectionate grumble. "Do you suppose they'll eat any better for being talked to and sung to as if they were persons?"

"Poor dears!" said the child; "they ought to be happy while they do live, oughtn't they, Auntie? Is it time to make the cake now, Aunt Vesta, or shall I get my knitting, and sing to Auntie Joy a little?"

At that moment a clear whistle was heard outside the house. "The doctor!" cried Melody, her sightless face lighting up with a flash of joy. "I must go," and she ran quickly out to the gate.

"Now he'll carry her off," said Miss Vesta, "and we sha'n't see her again till dinner-time. You'd think she was his child, not ours. But so it is, in this world."

"What has crossed you this morning, Sister?" asked Miss Rejoice, mildly. "You seem put about."

"Oh, the cat got into the tea-kettle." replied the elder sister. "Don't fret your blessed self if I am cross. I can't stand Martha Penny, that's all,—speaking so to that blessed child! I wish I had her here; she'd soon find out whether she had a nose or not. Dear knows it's long enough! It isn't the first time I've had four parts of a mind to pull it for her."

"Why, Vesta Dale, how you do talk!" said Miss Rejoice, and then they both laughed, and Miss Vesta went out to scold the doctor.

CHAPTER II.

THE DOCTOR.

The doctor sat in his buggy, leaning forward, and talking to the child. A florid, jovial-looking man, bright-eyed and deep-chested, with a voice like a trumpet, and a general air of being the West Wind in person. He was not alone this time: another doctor sat beside him; and Miss Vesta smoothed her ruffled front at sight of the stranger.

"Good-morning, Vesta," shouted the doctor, cheerily. "You came out to shoot me, because you thought I was coming to carry off Melody, eh? You needn't say no, for I know your musket-shot expression. Dr. Anthony, let me present you to Miss Vesta Dale,—a woman who has never had the grace to have a day's sickness since I have known her, and that's forty years at least."

"Miss Dale is a fortunate woman," said Dr. Anthony, smiling. "Have you many such constitutions in your practice, Brown?"

"I am fool enough to wish I had," growled Dr Brown. "That woman, sir, is enough to ruin any practice, with her pernicious example of disgusting health. How is Rejoice this morning, Vesta? Does she want to see me?"

Miss Vesta thought not, to-day; then followed questions and answers, searching on one side, careful and exact on the other; and then—

"I should like it if you could spare Melody for half an hour this morning," said the doctor. "I want her to go down to Phoebe Jackson's to see little Ned."

"Oh, what is the matter with Ned?" cried Melody, with a quick look of alarm.

"Tomfoolery is the principal matter with him, my dear," said Dr. Brown, grimly. "His eyes have been troubling him, you know, ever since he had the measles in the winter. I've kept one eye on the child, knowing that his mother was a perfect idiot, or rather, an imperfect one, which is worse. Yesterday she sent for me in hot haste: Ned was going blind, and would I please come that minute, and save the precious child, and oh, dear me, what should she do, and all the rest of it. I went down mad enough, I can tell you; found the child's eyes looking like a ploughed field. 'What have you been doing to this child, Phffibe?' 'We-ell, Doctor, his eyes has been kind o' bad along back, the last week. I did cal'late to send for you before; but one o' the neighbors was in, and she said to put molasses and tobacco-juice in them.' 'Thunder and turf!' says I. 'What sa-ay?' says Phoebe. ''N' then old Mis' Barker come in last night. You know she's had consid'able experi'nce with eyes, her own having been weakly, and all her children's after her. And she said to try vitriol; but I kind o' thought I'd ask you first, Doctor, so I waited till morning. And now his eyes look terrible, and he seems dretful 'pindlin'; oh, dear me, what shall I do if my poor little Neddy goes blind?' 'Do, Madam?' I said. 'You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you and your tobacco-juice and molasses have made him blind. That's what you will do, and much good may it do you.'"

"Oh, Doctor," cried Melody, shrinking as if the words had been addressed to her, "how could you say that? But you don't think—you don't think Ned will really be blind?" The child had grown very pale, and she leaned over the gate with clasped hands, in painful suspense.

"No, I don't," replied the doctor. "I think he will come out all right; no thanks to his mother if he does. But it was necessary to frighten the woman, Melody, for fright is the only thing that makes an impression on a fool. Now, I want you to run down there, like a good child; that is, if your aunts can spare you. Run down and comfort the little fellow, who has been badly scared by the clack of tongues and the smarting of the tobacco-juice. Imbeciles! cods' heads! scooped-out pumpkins!" exclaimed the doctor, in a sudden frenzy. "A—I don't mean that. Comfort him up, child, and sing to him and tell him about Jack-and-the-Beanstalk. You'll soon bring him round, I'll warrant. But stop," he added, as the child, after touching Miss Vesta's hand lightly, and making and receiving I know not what silent communication, turned toward the house,—"stop a moment, Melody. My friend Dr. Anthony here is very fond of music, and he would like to hear you sing just one song. Are you in singing trim this morning?"

The child laughed. "I can always sing, of course," she said simply.
"What song would you like, Doctor?"

"Oh, the best," said Dr. Brown. "Give us 'Annie Laurie.'"

The child sat down on a great stone that stood beside the gate. It was just under the white lilac-bush, and the white clusters bent lovingly down over her, and seemed to murmur with pleasure as the wind swept them lightly to and fro. Miss Vesta said something about her bread, and gave an uneasy glance toward the house, but she did not go in; the window was open, and Rejoice could hear; and after all, bread was not worth so much as "Annie Laurie." Melody folded her hands lightly on her lap, and sang.

Dr. Brown thought "Annie Laurie" the most beautiful song in the world; certainly it is one of the best beloved. Ever since it was first written and sung (who knows just when that was? "Anonymous" is the legend that stands in the song-books beside this familiar title. We do not know the man's name, cannot visit the place where he wrote and sang, and made music for all coming generations of English-speaking people; can only think of him as a kind friend, a man of heart and genius as surely as if his name stood at the head of unnumbered symphonies and fugues),—ever since it was first sung, I say, men and women and children have loved this song. We hear of its being sung by camp-fires, on ships at sea, at gay parties of pleasure. Was it not at the siege of Lucknow that it floated like a breath from home through the city hell-beset, and brought cheer and hope and comfort to all who heard it? The cotter's wife croons it over her sleeping baby; the lover sings it to his sweetheart; the child runs, carolling it, through the summer fields; finally, some world-honored prima-donna, some Patti or Nilsson, sings it as the final touch of perfection to a great feast of music, and hearts swell and eyes overflow to find that the nursery song of our childhood is a world-song, immortal in freshness and beauty. But I am apt to think that no lover, no tender mother, no splendid Italian or noble Swede, could sing "Annie Laurie" as Melody sang it. Sitting there in her simple cotton dress, her head thrown slightly back, her hands folded, her eyes fixed in their unchanging calm, she made a picture that the stranger never forgot. He started as the first notes of her voice stole forth, and hung quivering on the air,—

   "Maxwellton braes are bonnie,
   Where early fa's the dew."

What wonder was this? Dr. Anthony had come prepared to hear, he quite knew what,—a child's voice, pretty, perhaps, thin and reedy, nasal, of course. His good friend Brown was an excellent physician, but with no knowledge of music; how should he have any, living buried in the country, twenty miles from a railway, forty miles from a concert? Brown had said so much about the blind child that it would have been discourteous for him, Dr. Anthony, to refuse to see and hear her when he came to pass a night with his old college chum; but his assent had been rather wearily given: Dr. Anthony detested juvenile prodigies. But what was this? A voice full and round as the voices of Italy; clear as a bird's; swelling ever richer, fuller, rising in tones so pure, so noble, that the heart of the listener ached, as the poet's heart at hearing the nightingale, with almost painful pleasure. Amazement and delight made Dr. Anthony's face a study, which his friend perused with keen enjoyment. He knew, good Dr. Brown, that he himself was a musical nobody; he knew pretty well (what does a doctor not know?) what Anthony was thinking as they drove along. But he knew Melody too; and he rubbed his hands, and chuckled inwardly at the discomfiture of his knowing friend.

The song died away; and the last notes were like those of the skylark when she sinks into her nest at sunset. The listeners drew breath, and looked at each other.

There was a brief silence, and then, "Thank you, Melody," said Dr. Brown. "That's the finest song in the world, I don't care what the next is. Now run along, like my good maid, and sing it to Neddy Jackson, and he will forget all about his eyes, and turn into a great pair of ears."

The child laughed. "Neddy will want 'The British Grenadier,'" she said. "That is his greatest song." She ran into the house to kiss Miss Rejoice, came out with her sun-bonnet tied under her chin, and lifted her face to kiss Miss Vesta. "I sha'n't be gone long, Auntie," she said brightly. "There'll be plenty of time to make the cake after dinner."

Miss Vesta smoothed the dark hair with a motherly touch. "Doctor doesn't care anything about our cake," she said; "he isn't coming to tea to-night. I suppose you'd better stay as long as you're needed. I should not want the child to fret."

"Good-by, Doctor," cried the child, joyously, turning her bright face toward the buggy. "Good-by, sir," making a little courtesy to Dr. Anthony, who gravely took off his hat and bowed as if to a duchess. "Good-by again, dear auntie;" and singing softly to herself, she walked quickly away.

Dr. Anthony looked after her, silent for a while. "Blind from birth?" he asked presently.

"From birth," replied Dr. Brown. "No hope; I've had Strong down to see her. But she's the happiest creature in the world, I do believe. How does she sing?" he asked with ill-concealed triumph. "Pretty well for a country child, eh?"

"She sings like an angel," said Dr. Anthony,—"like an angel from heaven."

"She has a right to, sir," said Miss Vesta, gravely. "She is a child of God, who has never forgotten her Father."

Dr. Anthony turned toward the speaker, whom he had almost forgotten in his intense interest in the child. "This lovely child is your own niece, Madam?" he inquired. "She must be unspeakably dear to you."

Miss Vesta flushed. She did not often speak as she had just done, being a New England woman; but "Annie Laurie" always carried her out of herself, she declared. The answer to the gentleman's question was one she never liked to make. "She is not my niece in blood," she said slowly. "We are single women, my sister and I; but she is like our own daughter to us."

"Twelve years this very month, Vesta, isn't it," said Dr. Brown, kindly, "since the little one came to you? Do you remember what a wild night it was?"

Miss Vesta nodded. "I hear the wind now when I think of it," she said.

"The child is an orphan," the doctor continued, turning to his friend.
"Her mother was a young Irish woman, who came here looking for work.
She was poor, her husband dead, consumption on her, and so on, and so
on. She died at the poorhouse, and left this blind baby. Tell Dr.
Anthony how it happened, Vesta."

Miss Vesta frowned and blushed. She wished Doctor would remember that his friend was a stranger to her. But in a moment she raised her head. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, after all," she said, a little proudly. "I don't know why I should not tell you, sir. I went up to the poor-farm one evening, to carry a basket of strawberries. We had a great quantity, and I thought some of the people up there might like them, for they had few luxuries, though I don't believe they ever went hungry. And when I came there, Mrs. Green, who kept the farm then, came out looking all in a maze. 'Did you ever hear of such a thing in your life?' she cried out, the minute she set eyes on me. 'I don't know, I'm sure,' said I. 'Perhaps I did, and perhaps I didn't. How's the baby that poor soul left?' I said. It was two weeks since the mother died; and to tell the truth, I went up about as much to see how the child was getting on as to take the strawberries, though I don't know that I realized it till this very minute." She smiled grimly, and went on. "'That's just it,' Mrs. Green screams out, right in my face. 'Dr. Brown has just been here, and he says the child is blind, and will be blind all her days, and we've got to bring her up; and I'd like to know if I haven't got enough to do without feedin' blind children?' I just looked at her. 'I don't know that a deaf woman would be much better than a blind child,' said I; 'so I'll thank you to speak like a human being, Liza Green, and not scream at me. Aren't you ashamed?' I said. 'The child can't help being blind, I suppose. Poor little lamb! as if it hadn't enough, with no father nor mother in the world.' 'I don't care,' says Liza, crazy as ever; 'I can't stand it. I've got all I can stand now, with a feeble-minded boy and two so old they can't feed themselves. That Polly is as crazy as a loon, and the rest is so shif'less it loosens all my j'ints to look at 'em. I won't stand no more, for Dr. Brown nor anybody else.' And she set her hands on her hips and stared at me as if she'd like to eat me, sun-bonnet and all. 'Let me see the child,' I said. I went in, and there it lay,—the prettiest creature you ever saw in your life, with its eyes wide open, just as they are now, and the sweetest look on its little face. Well, there, you'd know it came straight from heaven, if you saw it in—Well, I don't know exactly what I'm saying. You must excuse me, sir!" and Miss Vesta paused in some confusion. "'Somebody ought to adopt it,' said I. 'It's a beautiful child; any one might be proud of it when it grew up.' 'I guess when you find anybody that would adopt a blind child, you'll find the cat settin' on hen's eggs,' said Liza Green. I sat and held the child a little while, trying to think of some one who would be likely to take care of it; but I couldn't think of any one, for as she said, so it was. By and by I kissed the poor little pretty thing, and laid it back in its cradle, and tucked it up well, though it was a warm night. 'You'll take care of that child, Liza,' I said, 'as long as it stays with you, or I'll know the reason why. There are plenty of people who would like the work here, if you're tired of it,' I said. She quieted down at that, for she knew that a word from me would set the doctor to thinking, and he wasn't going to have that blind child slighted, well I knew. Well, sir, I came home, and told Rejoice."

"Her sister," put in Dr. Brown,—"a crippled saint, been in her bed thirty years. She and Melody keep a small private heaven, and Vesta is the only sinner admitted."

"Doctor, you're very profane," said Miss Vesta, reprovingly. "I've never seen my sister Rejoice angry, sir, except that one time, when I told her. 'Where is the child?' she says. 'Why, where do you suppose?' said I. 'In its cradle, of course. I tucked it up well before I came away, and she won't dare to mistreat it for one while,' I said. 'Go and get it!' says my sister Rejoice. 'How dared you come home without it? Go and get it this minute, do you hear?' I stared as if I had seen a vision. 'Rejoice, what are you thinking of?' I asked. 'Bring that child here? Why, what should we do with it? I can't take care of it, nor you either.' My sister turned the color of fire. 'No one else shall take care of it,' she says, as if she was Bunker Hill Monument on a pillow. 'Go and get it this minute, Vesta. Don't wait; the Lord must not be kept waiting. Go, I tell you!' She looked so wild I was fairly frightened; so I tried to quiet her. I thought her mind was touched, some way. 'Well, I'll go to-morrow,' says I, soothing her; 'I couldn't go now, anyhow, Rejoice. Just hear it rain and blow! It came on just as I stepped inside the door, and it's a regular storm now. Be quiet,' I said, 'and I'll go up in the morning and see about it.' My sister sat right up in the bed. 'You'll go now,' she says, 'or I'll go myself. Now, this living minute! Quick!' I went, sir. The fire in her eyes would have scorched me if I had looked at it a minute longer. I thought she was coming out of the bed after me,—she, who had not stirred for twenty years. I caught up a shawl, threw another over my shoulders, and ran for the poor-farm. 'T was a perfect tempest, but I never felt it. Something seemed to drive me, as if it was a whip laid across my shoulders. I thought it was my sister's eyes, that had never looked hard at me since she was born; but maybe it was something else besides. They say there are no miracles in these days, but we don't know everything yet. I ran in at the farm, before them all, dripping, looking like a maniac, I don't doubt. I caught up the child out of the cradle, and wrapped it in the shawl I'd brought, and ran off again before they'd got their eyes shut from staring at me as if I was a spirit of evil. How my breath held out, don't ask me; but I got home, and ran into the chamber, and laid the child down by the side of my sister Rejoice."

Miss Vesta paused, and the shadow of a great awe crept into her keen blue eyes. "The poor-farm was struck by lightning that night!" she said. "The cradle where that baby was lying was shattered into kindling-wood, and Liza Green has never been the same woman from that day to this."

CHAPTER III.

ON THE ROAD.

Melody went singing down the road. She walked quickly, with a light swaying motion, graceful as a bird. Her hands were held before her, not, it seemed, from timidity, but rather as a butterfly stretches out its delicate antennae, touching, feeling, trying its way, as it goes from flower to flower. Truly, the child's light fingers were like butterflies, as she walked beside the road, reaching up to touch the hanging sprays of its bordering willows, or caressing the tiny flowers that sprang up along the footpath. She sang, too, as she went, a song the doctor had taught her:—

   "Who is Silvia, and what is she,
   That all our swains commend her?
   Holy, fair, and wise is she;
   The heavens such grace did lend her,
   That adored she might be."

One might have thought that Silvia was not far to seek, on looking into the fair face of the child. Now she stopped, and stood for a moment with head thrown back, and nostrils slightly distended. "Meadow-sweet!" she said softly to herself. "Isn't it out early? the dear. I must find it for Aunt Joy." She stooped, and passed her light, quick hands over the wayside grasses. Every blade and leaf was a familiar friend, and she greeted them as she touched them, weaving their names into her song in childish fashion,—

   "Buttercup and daisy dear, sorrel for her eating,
   Mint and rose to please the nose of my pretty sweeting."

Then she laughed outright. "When I grow up, I will make songs, too," she said, as she stooped to pick the meadow-sweet. "I will make the words, and Rosin shall make the music; and we will go through the village singing, till everybody comes out of the houses to listen:—

    Meadow-sweet is a treat;
    Columbine's a fairy;
    Mallow's fine, sweet as wine,—

What rhymes with fairy, I wonder. Dairy; but that won't come right.
Airy, hairy,—yes, now I have it!—

   Mallow's fine, sweet as wine,
   To feed my pet canary.

I'll sing that to Neddy," said Melody, laughing to herself as she went along. "I can sing it to the tune of 'Lightly Row.' Dear little boy!" she added, after a silence. "Think, if he had been blind, how dreadful it would have been! Of course it doesn't matter when you have never seen at all, because you know how to get on all right; but to have it, and then lose it—oh dear! but then,"—and her face brightened again,—"he isn't going to be blind, you see, so what's the use of worrying about it?

   The worry cow
    Might have lived till now,
    If she'd only saved her breath.
   She thought the hay
    Wouldn't last all day,
    So she choked herself to death."

Presently the child stopped again, and listened. The sound of wheels was faintly audible. No one else could have heard it but Melody, whose ears were like those of a fox. "Whose wagon squeaks like that?" she said, as she listened. "The horse interferes, too. Oh, of course; it's Eben Loomis. He'll pick me up and give me a ride, and then it won't take so long." She walked along, turning back every now and then, as the sound of wheels came nearer and nearer. At last, "Good-morning, Eben!" she cried, smiling as the wagon drove up; "will you take me on a piece, please?"

"Wal, I might, perhaps," admitted the driver, cautiously, "if I was sure you was all right, Mel'dy. How d'you know't was me comin', I'd like to know? I never said a word, nor so much as whistled, since I come in sight of ye." The man, a wiry, yellow-haired Yankee, bent down as he spoke, and taking the child's hand, swung her lightly up to the seat beside him.

Melody laughed joyously. "I should know your wagon if I heard it in Russia, Eben," she said. "Besides, poor old Jerry knocks his hind feet together so, I heard him clicking along even before I heard the wagon squeak. How's Mandy, Eben?"

"Mandy, she ain't very well," replied the countryman. "She's ben havin' them weakly spells right along lately. Seems though she was failin' up sometimes, but I dono."

"Oh, no, she isn't, Eben," answered Melody, cheerfully. "You said that six years ago, do you know it? and Mandy isn't a bit worse than she was then."

"Well, that's so," assented the man, after a thoughtful pause. "That is so, Mel'dy, though how you come to-know it is a myst'ry to me. Come to think of it, I dono but she's a leetle mite better than she was six years ago. Wal! now it's surprising ain't it, that you should know that, you child, without the use of your eyes, and I shouldn't, seein' her every day and all day? How do you account for that, now, hey?" He turned on his seat, and looked keenly at the child, as if half expecting her to meet his gaze.

"It's easy enough!" said Melody, with her quiet smile. "It's just because you see her so much, Eben, that you can't tell. Besides, I can tell from Mandy's voice. Her voice used to go down when she stopped speaking, like this, 'How do you do?' [with a falling inflection which was the very essence of melancholy]; and now her voice goes up cheerfully, at the end, 'How do you do?' Don't you see the difference, Eben?—so of course I know she must be a great deal better."

"I swan!" replied Eben Loomis, simply. "'How do you do?' 'How do you do?' so that's the way you find out things, is it, Mel'dy? Well, you're a curus child, that's what's the matter with you.—Where d'you say you was goin'?" he added, after a pause.

"I didn't say," said Melody. "But I'm going to Mrs. Jackson's, to see
Neddy."

"Want to know," said her companion. "Goin'—Hevin' some kind o' trouble with his eyes, ain't he?" He stopped short, with a glance at the child's clear eyes. It was impossible not to expect to find some answering look in them.

"They thought he was going blind," said Melody; "but it is all right now. I do wish people wouldn't tell Mrs. Jackson to keep putting things in his eyes. Why can't they let her do what the doctor tells her, and not keep wanting her to try all kinds of nonsense?"

"Wal, that's so," assented Eben,—"that's so, every time. I was down there a spell back, and I says, 'Phoebe,' I says, 'don't you do a thing folks tells you,' says I. 'Dr. Brown knows what he's about, and don't you do a thing but what he says, unless it's jest to wet his eyes up with a drop o' tobacco-juice,' says I. 'There's nothin' like tobacco-juice for weakly eyes, that's sure;' and of course I knew Doctor would ha' said so himself ef he'd ha' been there. Wal, here we be to Jackson's now," added the good man, pulling up his horse. "Hold on a minute, and I'll help ye down. Wal, there!" as Melody sprang lightly from the wagon, just touching his hand by way of greeting as she went, "if you ain't the spryest ever I see!"

"Good-by, Eben, and thank you ever so much," said the child. "Good-by,
Jerry."

"Come down an' see us, Mel'dy!" Eben called after her, as she turned toward-the house with unfaltering step. "T'would do Mandy a sight o' good. Come down and stop to supper. You ain't took a meal o' victuals with us I don't know when."

Melody promised to come soon, and took her way up the grassy path, while the countryman gazed after her with a look of wondering admiration.

"That child knows more than most folks that hev their sight!" he soliloquized. "What's she doin' now? Oh, stoppin' to pick a posy, for the child, likely. Now they'll all swaller her alive. Yes; thar they come. Look at the way she takes that child up, now, will ye? He's e'en a'most as big as she is; but you'd say she was his mother ten times over, from the way she handles him. Look at her set down on the doorstep, tellin' him a story, I'll bet. I tell ye! hear that little feller laugh, and he was cryin' all last night, Mandy says. I wouldn't mind hearin' that story myself. Faculty, that gal has; that's the name for it, sir. Git up, Jerry! this won't buy the child a cake;" and with many a glance over his shoulder, the good man drove on.

CHAPTER IV.

ROSIN THE BEAU.

The afternoon light was falling soft and sweet, as an old man came slowly along the road that led to the village. He was tall and thin, and he stooped as he walked,—not with the ordinary round-shouldered slouch, but with a one-sided droop, as if he had a habit of bending over something. His white hair was fancifully arranged, with a curl over the forehead such as little boys used to wear; his brown eyes were bright and quick as a bird's, and like a bird's, they glanced from side to side, taking in everything. He carried an oblong black box, evidently a violin-case, at which he cast an affectionate look from time to time. As he approached the village, his glances became more and more keenly intelligent. He seemed to be greeting a friend in every tree, in every straggling rose-bush along the roadside; he nodded his head, and spoke softly from time to time.

"Getting on now," he said to himself. "Here's the big rose-bush she was sitting under, the last time I came along. Nobody here now; but she'll be coming directly, up from the ground or down from the sky, or through a hole in the sunset. Do you remember how she caught her little gown on that fence-rail?" He bent over, and seemed to address his violin. "Sat down and took out her needle and thread, and mended it as neat as any woman; and then ran her butterfly hands over me, and found the hole in my coat, and called me careless boy, and mended that. Yes, yes; Rosin remembers every place where he saw his girl. Old Rosin remembers. There's the turn; now it's getting time for to be playing our tune, sending our letter of introduction along the road before us. Hey?"

He sat down under a spreading elder-bush, and proceeded to open his violin-case. Drawing out the instrument with as much care as if he were a mother taking her babe from the cradle, he looked it all over with anxious scrutiny, scanning every line and crack, as the mother scans face and hands and tiny curled-up feet. Finding all in order, he wiped it with a silk handkerchief (the special property of the instrument; a cotton one did duty for himself), polished it, and tuned it, and polished again. "Must look well, my beauty," he murmured; "must look well. Not a speck of dust but she'd feel it with those little fingers, you know. Ready now? Well, then, speak up for your master; speak, voice of my heart! 'A welcome for Rosin the Beau.' Ask for it, Music!"

Do people still play "Rosin the Beau," I wonder? I asked a violinist to play it to me the other day, and he had never heard of the tune. He played me something else, which he said was very fine,—a fantasia in E flat, I think it was; but I did not care for it. I wanted to hear "Rosin the Beau," the cradle-song of the fiddle,—the sweet, simple, foolish old song, which every "blind crowder" who could handle a fiddle-bow could play in his sleep fifty years ago, and which is now wellnigh forgotten. It is not a beautiful air; it may have no merit at all, musically speaking; but I love it well, and wish I might hear it occasionally instead of the odious "Carnival of Venice," which tortures my ears and wastes my nervous system at every concert where the Queen of Instruments holds her court.

The old man took up his fiddle, and laid his cheek lovingly against it. A moment he stood still, as if holding silent commune with the spirit of music, the tricksy Ariel imprisoned in the old wooden case; then he began to play "Rosin the Beau." As he played, he kept his eyes fixed on the bend of the road some rods ahead, as if expecting every moment to see some one appear from the direction of the village.

  "I've travelled this country all over,
  And now to the next I must go;
  But I know that good quarters await me,
  And a welcome for Rosin the Beau."

As he played, with bold but tender touch, the touch of a master, round the corner a figure came flying,—a child's figure, with hair all afloat, and arms wide-opened. The old man's face lightened, softened, became transfigured with joy and love; but he said no word, only played steadily on.

"Rosin!" cried Melody, stopping close before him, with outstretched arms. "Stop, Rosin; I want to kiss you, and I am afraid of hurting her. Put her down, do you hear?" She stamped her foot imperiously, and the old man laid the fiddle down and held out his arms in turn.

"Melody," he said tenderly, taking the child on his knee,—"little Melody, how are you? So you heard old Rosin, did you? You knew the old man was here, waiting for his little maid to come and meet him, as she always has. Where were you, Melody? Tell me, now. I didn't seem to hear you till just as you came to the corner; I didn't, now."

"I was down by the heater-piece," said the child. "I went to look for wild strawberries, with Aunt Vesta. I heard you, Rosin, the moment you laid your bow across her; but Aunt Vesta said no, she knew it was all nonsense, and we'd better finish our strawberries, anyhow. And then I heard that you wondered why I didn't come, and that you wanted me, and I kissed Auntie, and just flew. You heard how fast I was coming, when you did hear me; didn't you, Rosin dear?"

"I heard," said the old man, smoothing her curls back. "I knew you'd come, you see, jewel, soon as you could get here. And how are the good ladies, hey; and how are you yourself?—though I can tell that by looking at you, sure enough."

"Do I look well?" asked the child, with much interest. "Is my hair very nice and curly, Rosin, and do my eyes still look as if they were real eyes?" She looked up so brightly that any stranger would have been startled into thinking that she could really see.

"Bright as dollars, they are," assented the old man. "Dollars? no, that's no name for it. The stars are nearest it, Melody. And your hair—"

"My hair is like sweet Alice's," said the child, confidently,—"sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown. I promised Auntie Joy we would sing that for her, the very next time you came, but I never thought you would be here to-day, Rosin.

'Where have you been, my long, long love, this seven long years and more?'

That's a ballad, Rosin; Doctor taught it to me. It is a beauty, and you must make me a tune for it. But where have you been?"

"I've been up and down the earth," the old man replied,—"up and down the earth, Melody. Sometimes here and sometimes there. I'd feel a call here, and I'd feel a call there; and I seemed to be wanted, generally, just in those very places I'd felt called to. Do you believe in calls, Melody?"

"Of course I do," replied the child, promptly. "Only all the people who call you can't get you, Rosin, 'cause you'd be in fifty pieces if they did." She laughed joyously, throwing her head back with the birdlike, rapturous motion which seemed the very expression of her nature.

The old fiddler watched her with delight. "You shall hear all my stories," he said; "everything you shall hear, little Melody; but here we are at the house now, and I must make my manners to the ladies."

He paused, and looked critically at his blue coat, which, though threadbare, was scrupulously clean. He flecked some imaginary dust from his trousers, and ran his hand lightly through his hair, bringing the snowy curl which was the pride of his heart a little farther over his forehead. "Now I'll do, maybe," he said cheerfully. "And sure enough, there's Miss Vesta in the doorway, looking like a China rose in full bloom." He advanced, hat in hand, with a peculiar sliding step, which instantly suggested "chassez across to partners."

"Miss Vesta, I hope your health's good?"

Miss Vesta held out her hand cordially. "Why, Mr. De Arthenay, [Footnote: Pronounced Dee arthenay] is this you?" she cried. "This is a pleasure! Melody was sure it was you, and she ran off like a will-o'-the-wisp, when I could not hear a sound. But I'm very glad to see you. We were saying only yesterday how long a time it was since you'd been here. Now you must sit down, and tell us all the news. Stop, though," she added, with a glance at the vine-clad window; "Rejoice would like to see you, and hear the news too. Wait a moment, Mr. De Arthenay! I'll go in and move her up by the window, so that she can hear you."

She hastened into the house; and in a few minutes the blinds were thrown back, and Miss Rejoice's sweet voice was heard, saying, "Good-day, Mr. De Arthenay. It is always a good day that brings you."

The old man sprang up from his seat in the porch, and made a low bow to the window. "It's a treat to hear your voice, Miss Rejoice, so it is," he said heartily. "I hope your health's been pretty good lately? It seems to me your voice sounds stronger than it did the last time I was here."

"Oh, I'm very well," responded the invalid, cheerfully. "Very well, I
feel this summer; don't I, Vesta? And where have you been, Mr. De
Arthenay, all this time? I'm sure you have a great deal to tell us.
It's as good as a newspaper when you come along, we always say."

The old fiddler cleared his throat, and settled himself comfortably in a corner of the porch, with Melody's hand in his. Miss Vesta produced her knitting; Melody gave a little sigh of perfect content, and nestled up to her friend's side, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"Begin to tell now, Rosin," she said. "Tell us all that you know."

"Tell you everything," he repeated thoughtfully. "Not all, little Melody. I've seen some things that you wouldn't like to hear about,—things that would grieve your tender heart more than a little. We will not talk about those; but I have seen bright things too, sure enough. Why, only day before yesterday I was at a wedding, over in Pegrum; a pretty wedding it was too. You remember Myra Bassett, Miss Vesta?"

"To be sure I do," replied Miss Vesta. "She married John Andrews, her father's second cousin once removed. Don't tell me that Myra has a daughter old enough to be married: Or is it a son? either way, it is ridiculous."

"A daughter!" said the old man,—"the prettiest girl in Pegrum. Like a ripe chestnut, more than anything. Two lads were in love with her; there may have been a dozen, but these two I know about. One of them—I'll name no names, 'tis kinder not—found that she wanted to marry a hero (what girl does not?), so he thought he would try his hand at heroism. There was a picnic this spring, and he hired a boy (or so the boy says—it may be wicked gossip) to upset the boat she was in, so that he, the lover, might save her life. But, lo and behold! he was taken with a cramp in the water, and was almost drowned, and the second lover jumped in, and saved them both. So she married the second (whom she had liked all along), and then the boy told his story."

"Miserable sneak!" ejaculated Miss Vesta. "To risk the life of the woman he pretended to love, just to show himself off."

"Still, I am sorry for him!" said Miss Rejoice, through the window. (Miss Rejoice was always sorry for wrongdoers, much sorrier than for the righteous who suffered. They would be sure to get good out of it, she said, but the poor sinners generally didn't know how.) "What did he do, poor soul?"

"He went away!" replied the fiddler. "Pegrum wouldn't hold him; and the other lad was a good shot, and went about with a shot-gun. But I was going to tell you about the wedding."

"Of course!" cried Melody. "What did the bride wear? That is the most important part."

De Arthenay cleared his throat, and looked grave. He always made a point of remembering the dresses at weddings, and was proud of the accomplishment,—a rare one in his sex.

"Miss Andrews—I beg her pardon, Mrs. Nelson—had on a white muslin gown, made quite full, with three ruffles round the skirt. There was lace round the neck, but I cannot tell you what kind, except that it was very soft and fine. She had white roses on the front of her gown, and in her hair, and pink ones in her cheeks; her eyes were like brown diamonds, and she had little white satin slippers, for all the world like Cinderella. They were a present from her Grandmother Anstey, over at Bow Mills. Her other grandmother, Mrs. Bowen, gave her the dress, so her father and mother could lay out all they wanted to on the supper; and a handsome supper it was. Then after supper they danced. It would have done your heart good, Miss Vesta, to see that little bride dance. Ah! she is a pretty creature. There was another young woman, too, who played the piano. Kate, they called her, but I don't know what her other name was. Anyway, she had an eye like black lightning stirred up with a laugh, and a voice like the 'Fisherman's Hornpipe.'"

He took up his fiddle, and softly, delicately, played a few bars of that immortal dance. It rippled like a woman's laugh, and Melody smiled in instant sympathy.

"I wish I had seen her," she cried. "Did she play well, Rosin?"

"She played so that I knew she must be either French or Irish!" the fiddler replied. "No Yankee ever played dance-music in that fashion; I made bold to say to her, as we were playing together, 'Etes-vous compatriote?'

"'More power to your elbow,' said she, with a twinkle of her eye, and she struck into 'Saint Patrick's Day in the Morning.' I took it up, and played the 'Marseillaise,' over it and under it, and round it,—for an accompaniment, you understand, Melody; and I can tell you, we made the folks open their eyes. Yes; she was a fine young lady, and it was a fine wedding altogether.

"But I am forgetting a message I have for you, ladies. Last week I was passing through New Joppa, and I stopped to call on Miss Lovina Green; I always stop there when I go through that region. Miss Lovina asked me to tell you—let me see! what was it?" He paused, to disentangle this particular message from the many he always carried, in his journeyings from one town to another. "Oh, yes, I remember. She wanted you to know that her Uncle Reuel was dead, and had left her a thousand dollars, so she should be comfortable the rest of her days. She thought you'd be glad to know it."

"That is good news!" exclaimed Miss Vesta, heartily. "Poor Lovina! she has been so straitened all these years, and saw no prospect of anything better. The best day's work Reuel Green has ever done was to die and leave that money to Lovina."

"Why, Vesta!" said Miss Rejoice's soft voice; "how you do talk!"

"Well, it's true!" Miss Vesta replied. "And you know it, Rejoice, my dear, as well as I do. Any other news in Joppa, Mr. De Arthenay? I haven't heard from over there for a long time."

"Why, they've been having some robberies in Joppa," the old man said,—"regular burglaries. There's been a great excitement about it. Several houses have been entered and robbed, some of money, others of what little silver there was, though I don't suppose there is enough silver in all New Joppa to support a good, healthy burglar for more than a few days. The funny part of it is that though I have no house, I came very near being robbed myself."

"You, Rosin?"

"You, Mr. De Arthenay? Do tell us!"

Melody passed her hand rapidly over the old man's face, and then settled back with her former air of content, knowing that all was well.

"You shall hear my story," the old man said, drawing himself up, and giving his curl a toss. "It was the night I came away from Joppa. I had been taking tea with William Bradwell's folks, and stayed rather late in the evening, playing for the young folks, singing old songs, and one thing and another. It was ten o'clock when I said good-night and stepped out of the house and along the road. 'T was a fine night, bright moonlight, and everything shining like silver. I'd had a pleasant evening, and I felt right cheered up as I passed along, sometimes talking a bit to the Lady, and sometimes she to me; for I'd left her case at the house, seeing I should pass by again in the morning, when I took my way out of the place.

"Well, sir,—I beg your pardon; ladies, I should say,—as I came along a strip of the road with the moon full on it, but bordered with willow scrub,—as I came along, sudden a man stepped out of those bushes, and told me to stand and throw up my hands.—Don't be frightened, Melody," for the child had taken his hand with a quick, frightened motion; "have no fear at all! I had none. I saw, or felt, perhaps it was, that he had no pistols; that he was only a poor sneak and bully. So I said, 'Stand yourself!' I stepped clear out, so that the light fell full on my face, and I looked him in the eye, and pointed my bow at him. 'My name is De Arthenay,' I said. 'I am of French extraction, but I hail from the Androscoggin. I am known in this country. This is my fiddle-bow; and if you are not gone before I can count three, I'll shoot you with it. One!' I said; but I didn't need to count further. He turned and ran, as if the—as if a regiment was after him; and as soon as I had done laughing, I went on my way to the tavern."

All laughed heartily at the old man's story; but when the laughter subsided, Melody begged him to take "the Lady," and play for her. "I have not heard you play for so long, Rosin, except just when you called me."

"Yes, Mr. De Arthenay," said Miss Vesta, "do play a little for us, while I get supper. Suppose I bring the table out here, Melody; how would you like that?"

"Oh, so much!" cried the child, clapping her hands. "So very much! Let me help!"

She started up; and while the fiddler played, old sweet melodies, such as Miss Rejoice loved, there was a pleasant, subdued bustle of coming and going, clinking and rustling, as the little table was brought out and set in the vine-wreathed porch, the snowy cloth laid, and the simple feast set forth. There were wild strawberries, fresh and glowing, laid on vine-leaves; there were biscuits so light it seemed as if a puff of wind might blow them away; there were twisted doughnuts, and coffee brown and as clear as a mountain brook. It was a pleasant little feast; and the old fiddler glanced with cheerful approval over the table as he sat down.

"Ah, Miss Vesta," he said, as he handed the biscuits gallantly to his hostess, "there's no such table as this for me to sit down to, wherever I go, far or near. Look at the biscuit, now,—moulded snow, I call them. Take one, Melody, my dear. You'll never get anything better to eat in this world."

The child flushed with pleasure.

"You're praising her too much to herself," said Miss Vesta, with a pleased smile. "Melody made those biscuit, all herself, without any help. She's getting to be such a good housekeeper, Mr. De Arthenay, you would not believe it."

"You don't tell me that she made these biscuit!" cried the old man.
"Why, Melody, I shall be frightened at you if you go on at this rate.
You are not growing up, are you, little Melody?"

"No! no! no!" cried the child, vehemently. "I am not growing up,
Rosin. I don't want to grow up, ever, at all."

"I should like to know what you can do about it," said Miss Vesta, smiling grimly. "You'll have to stop pretty short if you are not going to grow up, Melody. If I have let your dresses down once this spring, I've let them down three times. You're going to be a tall woman, I should say, and you've a right good start toward it now."

A shade stole over the child's bright face, and she was silent,—seeming only half to listen while the others chatted, yet never forgetting to serve them, and seeming, by a touch on the hand of either friend, to know what was wanted.

When the meal was over, and the tea-things put away, Melody came out again into the porch, where the fiddler sat smoking his pipe, and leaning against one of the supports, felt among the leaves which hid it. "Here is the mark!" she said. "Am I really taller, Rosin? Really much taller?"

"What troubles the child?" the old man asked gently. "She does not want to grow? The bud must open, Melody, my dear! the bud must open!"

"But it's so unreasonable," cried Melody, as she stood holding by the old man's hand, swaying lightly to and fro, as if the wind moved her with the vines and flowers. "Why can't I stay a little girl? A little girl is needed here, isn't she? And there is no need at all of another woman. I can't be like Aunt Vesta or Auntie Joy; so I think I might stay just Melody." Then shaking her curls back, she cried, "Well, anyhow, I am just Melody now, and nothing more; and I mean to make the most of it. Come, Rosin, come! I am ready for music. The dishes are all washed, and there's nothing more to do, is there, Auntie? It is so long since Rosin has been here; now let us have a good time, a perfect time!"

De Arthenay took up his fiddle once more, and caressed its shining curves. "She's in perfect trim," he said tenderly. "She's fit to play with you to-night, Melody. Come, I am ready; what shall we have?"

Melody sat down on the little green bench which was her own particular seat. She folded her hands lightly on her lap, and threw her head back with her own birdlike gesture. One would have said that she was calling the spirit of song, which might descend on rainbow wings, and fold her in his arms. The old man drew the bow softly, and the fiddle gave out a low, brooding note,—a note of invitation.

  "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
  Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?
  She wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
  And trembled with fear at your frown."

Softly the old man played, keeping his eyes fixed on the child, whose glorious voice floated out on the evening air, filling the whole world with sweetest melody. Miss Vesta dropped her knitting and folded her hands, while a peaceful, dreamy look stole into her fine face,—a face whose only fault was the too eager look which a New England woman must so often gain, whether she will or no. In the quiet chamber, the bedridden woman lay back on her pillows smiling, with a face as the face of an angel. Her thoughts were lifted up on the wings of the music, and borne—who shall say where, to what high and holy presence? Perhaps—who can tell?—the eyes of her soul looked in at the gate of heaven itself; if it were so, be sure they saw nothing within that white portal more pure and clear than their own gaze.

And still the song flowed on. Presently doors began to open along the village street. People came softly out, came on tiptoe toward the cottage, and with a silent greeting to its owner sat down beside the road to listen. Children came dancing, with feet almost as light as Melody's own, and curled themselves up beside her on the grass. Tired-looking mothers came, with their babies in their arms; and the weary wrinkles faded from their faces, and they listened in silent content, while the little ones, who perhaps had been fretting and complaining a moment before, nestled now quietly against the mother-breast, and felt that no one wanted to tease or ill-treat them, but that the world was all full of Mother, who loved them. Beside one of these women a man came and sat him down, as if from habit; but he did not look at her. His face wore a weary, moody frown, and he stared at the ground sullenly, taking no note of any one. The others looked at one another and nodded, and thought of the things they knew; the woman cast a sidelong glance at him, half hopeful, half fearful, but made no motion.

   "Oh, don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
      And the master so kind and so true;
   And the little nook by the clear running brook,
     Where we gathered the flowers as they grew?"

The dark-browed man listened, and thought. Her name was Alice, this woman by his side. They had been schoolmates together, had gathered flowers, oh, how many times, by brook-side and hill. They had grown up to be lovers, and she was his wife, sitting here now beside him,—his wife, with his baby in her arms; and he had not spoken to her for a week. What began it all? He hardly knew; but she had been provoking, and he had been tired, impatient; there had been a great scene, and then this silence, which he swore he would not break. How sad she looked! he thought, as he stole a glance at the face bending over the child.

   "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,
     Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?"

Was she singing about them, this child? She had sung at their wedding, a little thing of seven years old; and old De Arthenay had played, and wished them happiness, and said they were the handsomest couple he had played for that year. Now she looked so tired: how was it that he had never seen how tired she looked? Perhaps she was only sick or nervous that day when she spoke so. The child stirred in its mother's arms, and she gave a low sigh of weariness, and shifted the weight to the other arm. The young man bent forward and took the baby, and felt how heavy it had grown since last he held it. He had not said anything, he would not say anything—just yet; but his wife turned to him with such a smile, such a flash of love and joy, imploring, promising, that his heart leaped, and then beat peacefully, happily, as it had not beaten for many days. All was over; and Alice leaned against his arm with a little movement of content, and the good neighbors looked at one another again, and smiled this time to know that all was well.

What is the song now? The blind child turns slightly, so that she faces Miss Vesta Dale, whose favorite song this is,—

   "All in the merry month of May,
      When green buds were a-swellin",
   Young Jemmy Grove on his death-hed lay,
     For love of Barbara Allan."

Why is Miss Vesta so fond of the grim old ballad? Perhaps she could hardly tell, if she would. She looks very stately as she leans against the wall, close by the room where her sister Rejoice is lying. Does a thought come to her mind of the youth who loved her so, or thought he loved her, long and long ago? Does she see his look of dismay, of incredulous anger, when she told him that her life must be given to her crippled sister, and that if he would share it he must take Rejoice too, to love and to cherish as dearly as he would cherish her? He could not bear the test; he was a good young fellow enough, but there was nothing of the hero about him, and he thought that crippled folk should be taken care of in hospitals, where they belonged.

   "'Oh, dinna ye mind, young man,' she said,
       'When the red wine was a-fillin',
    Ye bade the healths gae round an' round,
      And slighted Barbara Allan?'"

If the cruel Barbara had not repented, and "laid her down in sorrow," she might well have grown to look like this handsome, white-haired woman, with her keen blue eyes and queenly bearing.

Miss Vesta had never for an instant regretted the disposition of her life, never even in the shadow of a thought; but this was the song she used to sing in those old days, and somehow she always felt a thrill (was it of pleasure or pain? she could not have told you) when the child sang it.

But there may have been a "call," as Rosin the Beau would have said, for some one else beside Vesta Dale; for a tall, pale girl, who has been leaning against the wall pulling off the gray lichens as she listened, now slips away, and goes home and writes a letter; and to-morrow morning, when the mail goes to the next village, two people will be happy in God's world instead of being miserable. And now? Oh, now it is a merry song; for, after all, Melody is a child, and a happy child; and though she loves the sad songs dearly, still she generally likes to end up with a "dancy one."

   "'Come boat me o'er,
   Come row me o'er,
   Come boat me o'er to Charlie;
   I'll gi'e John Ross anither bawbee
   To boat me o'er to Charlie.
   We'll o'er the water an' o'er the sea,
   We'll o'er the water to Charlie,
   Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go,
   And live and die wi' Charlie.'"

And now Rosin the Beau proves the good right he has to his name. Trill and quavers and roulades are shaken from his bow as lightly as foam from the prow of a ship. The music leaps rollicking up and down, here and there, till the air is all a-quiver with merriment. The old man draws himself up to his full height, all save that loving bend of the head over the beloved instrument. His long slender foot, in its quaint "Congress" shoe, beats time like a mill-clapper,—tap, tap, tap; his snowy curl dances over his forehead, his brown eyes twinkle with pride and pleasure. Other feet beside his began to pat the ground; heads were lifted, eyes looked invitation and response. At length the child Melody, with one superb outburst of song, lifted her hands above her head, and springing out into the road cried, "A dance! a dance!"

Instantly the quiet road was alive with dancers. Old and young sprang to their feet in joyful response. The fiddle struck into "The Irish Washerwoman," and the people danced. Children joined hands and jumped up and down, knowing no steps save Nature's leaps of joy; youths and maidens flew in graceful measures together; last, but not least, old Simon Parker the postmaster seized Mrs. Martha Penny by both hands, and regardless of her breathless shrieks whirled her round and round till the poor old dame had no breath left to scream with. Alone in the midst of the gay throng (as strange a one, surely, as ever disturbed the quiet of a New England country road) danced the blind child, a figure of perfect grace. Who taught Melody to dance? Surely it was the wind, the swaying birch-tree, the slender grasses that nod and wave by the brookside. Light as air she floated in and out among the motley groups, never jostling or touching any one. Her slender arms waved in time to the music; her beautiful hair floated over her shoulders. Her whole face glowed with light and joy, while only her eyes, steadfast and unchanging, struck the one grave note in the symphony of joy and merriment.

From time to time the old fiddler stole a glance at Miss Vesta Dale, as she sat erect and stately, leaning against the wall of the house. She was beginning to grow uneasy. Her foot also began to pat the ground. She moved slightly, swayed on her seat; her fingers beat time, as did the slender, well-shaped foot which peeped from under her scant blue skirt. Suddenly De Arthenay stopped short, and tapped sharply on his fiddle, while the dancers, breathless and exhausted, fell back by the roadside again. Stepping out from the porch, he made a low bow to Miss Vesta. "Chorus Jig!" he cried, and struck up the air of that time-honored dance. Miss Vesta frowned, shook her head resolutely,—rose, and standing opposite the old fiddler, began to dance.

Here was a new marvel, no less strange in its way than Melody's wild grace of movement, or the sudden madness of the village crowd. The stately white-haired woman moved slowly forward; the old man bowed again; she courtesied as became a duchess of Nature's own making. Their bodies erect and motionless, their heads held high, their feet went twinkling through a series of evolutions which the keenest eye could hardly follow. "Pigeon-wings?" Whole flocks of pigeons took flight from under that scant blue skirt, from those wonderful shrunken trousers of yellow nankeen. They moved forward, back, forward again, as smoothly as a wave glides up the shore. They twinkled round and round each other, now back to back, now face to face. They chasséd into corners, and displayed a whirlwind of delicately pointed toes; they retired as if to quarrel; they floated back to make it up again. All the while not a muscle of their faces moved, not a gleam of fun disturbed the tranquil sternness of their look; for dancing was a serious business thirty years ago, when they were young, and they had no idea of lowering its dignity by any "quips and cranks and wanton wiles," such as young folks nowadays indulge in. Briefly, it was a work of art; and when it was over, and the sweeping courtesy and splendid bow had restored the old-time dancers to their places, a shout of applause went up, and the air rang with such a tumult as had never before, perhaps, disturbed the tranquillity of the country road.