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, thatis certain. Just listen to her, Rejoice! You never heard our canarysing like that!"

Miss Vesta put back the shutters as she spoke, and let a flood oflight into the room where Miss Rejoice lay. The window was open, andMelody's voice came in like a wave of sound, filling the room withsweetness 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 airof perfect content, --"nightingales, and skylarks, and all the birds inthe poetry-books. What is she doing, Vesta?"

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

Miss Vesta peered out between the muslin curtains. "She's sitting onthe steps, " she said, "feeding the hens. It is wonderful, the way thecreatures know her! That old top-knot hen, that never has a good wordfor anybody, is sitting in her lap almost. She says she understandstheir talk, and I really believe she does. 'Tis certain none of themcluck, not a sound, while she's singing. 'Tis a manner of marvel, tomy mind. "

"It is so, " assented Miss Rejoice, mildly. "There, sister! you saidyou 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 brushedstraight up from her broad forehead; her blue eyes were keen andbright as a sword. She wore a black dress and a white apron; her handsshowed 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 passedbetween them when they were alone together. The face that lay on thepillow was white and withered, like a crumpled white rose. The darkeyes 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 Vestawas splendidly handsome, while no one would think of calling MissRejoice anything but lovely. The younger sister lay always in bed. Itwas some thirty years since she met with the accident which changedher from a rosy, laughing girl into a helpless cripple. A party ofpleasure, --gay lads and lasses riding together, careless of anythingsave the delight of the moment; a sudden leap of the horse, frightenedat some obstacle; a fall, striking on a sharp stone, --this was MissRejoice's little story. People in the village had forgotten that therewas any story; even her own contemporaries almost forgot that Rejoicehad ever been other than she was now. But Miss Vesta never forgot. Sheleft her position in the neighboring town, broke off her engagement tothe man she loved, and came home to her sister; and they had neverbeen separated for a day since. Once, when the bitter pain began toabate, and the sufferer could realize that she was still a livingcreature and not a condemned spirit, suffering for the sins of someone else (she had thought of all her own, and could not feel that theywere bad enough to merit such suffering, if God was the person shesupposed), --in those first days Miss Rejoice ventured to question hersister about her engagement. She was afraid--she did hope the breakingof it had nothing to do with her. "It has to do with myself!" saidMiss Vesta, briefly, and nothing more was said. The sisters had livedtheir life together, without a thought save for each other, tillMelody came into their world. 

But here is Melody at the door; she shall introduce herself. A girl oftwelve years old, with a face like a flower. A broad white forehead, with dark hair curling round it in rings and tendrils as delicate asthose of a vine; a sweet, steadfast mouth, large blue eyes, clear andcalm under the long dark lashes, but with a something in them whichmakes the stranger turn to look at them again. He may look severaltimes before he discovers the reason of their fixed, unchanging calm. The lovely mouth smiles, the exquisite face lights up with gladness orsoftens into sympathy or pity; but the blue eyes do not flash orsoften, 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 weresaying yesterday that it was time for cinnamon-roses; now here is onefor you. " She stooped to kiss the sweet white face, and laid theglowing blossom beside it. 

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

"Not in our yard at all, " replied the child, laughing. "The smell cameto 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 seeit. "

"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 thefirst 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. "Shewanted to know if I thought she had no nose of her own. 'I didn't meanthat, ' said I; 'but I thought perhaps you wouldn't care for it quiteas much as Aunt Joy would. ' And when she asked why, I said, 'You don'tsound as if you would. ' Was that rude, Aunt Vesta?"

"Humph!" said Miss Vesta, smiling grimly. "I don't know whether it wasexactly 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 sofunny. 'Well, gaffle onto it! I s'pose you're one of them kind as mustalways have what they want in this world. Gaffle onto your rose, andgo 'long! Guess I might be sick enough before anybody 'ud get rosesfor me!' So I told her I would bring her a whole bunch of our whiteones as soon as they were out, and told her how I always tried to getthe 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 anymore; so I took the rose, and here it is. "

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

"Martha Penny has a sharp way, Melody, " said Miss Rejoice; "but shemeant 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 hensthis morning, dearie?"

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

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

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

At that moment a clear whistle was heard outside the house. "Thedoctor!" cried Melody, her sightless face lighting up with a flash ofjoy. "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 heragain till dinner-time. You'd think she was his child, not ours. Butso 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 MarthaPenny, that's all, --speaking so to that blessed child! I wish I hadher here; she'd soon find out whether she had a nose or not. Dearknows it's long enough! It isn't the first time I've had four parts ofa mind to pull it for her. "

"Why, Vesta Dale, how you do talk!" said Miss Rejoice, and then theyboth 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 thechild. A florid, jovial-looking man, bright-eyed and deep-chested, with a voice like a trumpet, and a general air of being the West Windin 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 toshoot 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 neverhad the grace to have a day's sickness since I have known her, andthat's forty years at least. "

"Miss Dale is a fortunate woman, " said Dr. Anthony, smiling. "Have youmany 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 ofdisgusting health. How is Rejoice this morning, Vesta? Does she wantto 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 thismorning, " said the doctor. "I want her to go down to Phoebe Jackson'sto see little Ned. "

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

"Tomfoolery is the principal matter with him, my dear, " said Dr. Brown, grimly. "His eyes have been troubling him, you know, ever sincehe 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 imperfectone, which is worse. Yesterday she sent for me in hot haste: Ned wasgoing blind, and would I please come that minute, and save theprecious child, and oh, dear me, what should she do, and all the restof it. I went down mad enough, I can tell you; found the child's eyeslooking like a ploughed field. 'What have you been doing to thischild, Phffibe?' 'We-ell, Doctor, his eyes has been kind o' bad alongback, 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-juicein them. ' 'Thunder and turf!' says I. 'What sa-ay?' says Phoebe. ''N'then old Mis' Barker come in last night. You know she's hadconsid'able experi'nce with eyes, her own having been weakly, and allher 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 nowhis eyes look terrible, and he seems dretful 'pindlin'; oh, dear me, what shall I do if my poor little Neddy goes blind?' 'Do, Madam?' Isaid. 'You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you and yourtobacco-juice and molasses have made him blind. That's what you willdo, and much good may it do you. '"

"Oh, Doctor, " cried Melody, shrinking as if the words had beenaddressed to her, "how could you say that? But you don't think--youdon'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 allright; no thanks to his mother if he does. But it was necessary tofrighten the woman, Melody, for fright is the only thing that makes animpression on a fool. Now, I want you to run down there, like a goodchild; that is, if your aunts can spare you. Run down and comfort thelittle fellow, who has been badly scared by the clack of tongues andthe smarting of the tobacco-juice. Imbeciles! cods' heads! scooped-outpumpkins!" exclaimed the doctor, in a sudden frenzy. "A--I don't meanthat. Comfort him up, child, and sing to him and tell him aboutJack-and-the-Beanstalk. You'll soon bring him round, I'll warrant. But stop, " he added, as the child, after touching Miss Vesta's handlightly, and making and receiving I know not what silentcommunication, turned toward the house, --"stop a moment, Melody. Myfriend Dr. Anthony here is very fond of music, and he would like tohear 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 wasjust under the white lilac-bush, and the white clusters bent lovinglydown over her, and seemed to murmur with pleasure as the wind sweptthem 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; thewindow was open, and Rejoice could hear; and after all, bread was notworth so much as "Annie Laurie. " Melody folded her hands lightly onher 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 firstwritten and sung (who knows just when that was? "Anonymous" is thelegend that stands in the song-books beside this familiar title. We donot know the man's name, cannot visit the place where he wrote andsang, and made music for all coming generations of English-speakingpeople; can only think of him as a kind friend, a man of heart andgenius as surely as if his name stood at the head of unnumberedsymphonies and fugues), --ever since it was first sung, I say, men andwomen and children have loved this song. We hear of its being sung bycamp-fires, on ships at sea, at gay parties of pleasure. Was it not atthe siege of Lucknow that it floated like a breath from home throughthe city hell-beset, and brought cheer and hope and comfort to all whoheard it? The cotter's wife croons it over her sleeping baby; thelover 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 agreat feast of music, and hearts swell and eyes overflow to find thatthe nursery song of our childhood is a world-song, immortal infreshness and beauty. But I am apt to think that no lover, no tendermother, no splendid Italian or noble Swede, could sing "Annie Laurie"as Melody sang it. Sitting there in her simple cotton dress, her headthrown slightly back, her hands folded, her eyes fixed in theirunchanging calm, she made a picture that the stranger never forgot. Hestarted as the first notes of her voice stole forth, and hungquivering 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 quiteknew what, --a child's voice, pretty, perhaps, thin and reedy, nasal, of course. His good friend Brown was an excellent physician, but withno knowledge of music; how should he have any, living buried in thecountry, twenty miles from a railway, forty miles from a concert?Brown had said so much about the blind child that it would have beendiscourteous for him, Dr. Anthony, to refuse to see and hear her whenhe came to pass a night with his old college chum; but his assent hadbeen 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 sopure, so noble, that the heart of the listener ached, as the poet'sheart at hearing the nightingale, with almost painful pleasure. Amazement and delight made Dr. Anthony's face a study, which hisfriend perused with keen enjoyment. He knew, good Dr. Brown, that hehimself was a musical nobody; he knew pretty well (what does a doctornot know?) what Anthony was thinking as they drove along. But he knewMelody too; and he rubbed his hands, and chuckled inwardly at thediscomfiture of his knowing friend. 

The song died away; and the last notes were like those of the skylarkwhen she sinks into her nest at sunset. The listeners drew breath, andlooked 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 thenext is. Now run along, like my good maid, and sing it to NeddyJackson, and he will forget all about his eyes, and turn into a greatpair of ears. "

The child laughed. "Neddy will want 'The British Grenadier, '" shesaid. "That is _his_ greatest song. " She ran into the house to kissMiss Rejoice, came out with her sun-bonnet tied under her chin, andlifted 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 afterdinner. "

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

"Good-by, Doctor, " cried the child, joyously, turning her bright facetoward 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, shewalked 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 seeher. But she's the happiest creature in the world, I do believe. Howdoes she sing?" he asked with ill-concealed triumph. "Pretty well fora country child, eh?"

"She sings like an angel, " said Dr. Anthony, --"like an angel fromheaven. "

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

Dr. Anthony turned toward the speaker, whom he had almost forgotten inhis intense interest in the child. "This lovely child is your ownniece, 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 outof herself, she declared. The answer to the gentleman's question wasone she never liked to make. "She is not my niece in blood, " she saidslowly. "We are single women, my sister and I; but she is like our owndaughter 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 wildnight 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 soon. 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 thathis 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 littleproudly. "I don't know why I should not tell you, sir. I went up tothe poor-farm one evening, to carry a basket of strawberries. We had agreat quantity, and I thought some of the people up there might likethem, for they had few luxuries, though I don't believe they ever wenthungry. 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 inyour life?' she cried out, the minute she set eyes on me. 'I don'tknow, I'm sure, ' said I. 'Perhaps I did, and perhaps I didn't. How'sthe baby that poor soul left?' I said. It was two weeks since themother died; and to tell the truth, I went up about as much to see howthe child was getting on as to take the strawberries, though I don'tknow that I realized it till this very minute. " She smiled grimly, andwent 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, andwill be blind all her days, and we've got to bring her up; and I'dlike to know if I haven't got enough to do without feedin' blindchildren?' I just looked at her. 'I don't know that a deaf woman wouldbe much better than a blind child, ' said I; 'so I'll thank you tospeak like a human being, Liza Green, and not scream at me. Aren't youashamed?' I said. 'The child can't help being blind, I suppose. Poorlittle lamb! as if it hadn't enough, with no father nor mother in theworld. ' '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 oldthey can't feed themselves. That Polly is as crazy as a loon, and therest is so shif'less it loosens all my j'ints to look at 'em. I won'tstand no more, for Dr. Brown nor anybody else. ' And she set her handson her hips and stared at me as if she'd like to eat me, sun-bonnetand all. 'Let me see the child, ' I said. I went in, and there itlay, --the prettiest creature you ever saw in your life, with its eyeswide open, just as they are now, and the sweetest look on its littleface. Well, there, you'd know it came straight from heaven, if you sawit 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 toadopt it, ' said I. 'It's a beautiful child; any one might be proud ofit when it grew up. ' 'I guess when you find anybody that would adopt ablind child, you'll find the cat settin' on hen's eggs, ' said LizaGreen. I sat and held the child a little while, trying to think ofsome one who would be likely to take care of it; but I couldn't thinkof any one, for as she said, so it was. By and by I kissed the poorlittle pretty thing, and laid it back in its cradle, and tucked it upwell, 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 reasonwhy. There are plenty of people who would like the work here, ifyou're tired of it, ' I said. She quieted down at that, for she knewthat a word from me would set the doctor to thinking, and he wasn'tgoing to have that blind child slighted, well I knew. Well, sir, Icame home, and told Rejoice. "

"Her sister, " put in Dr. Brown, --"a crippled saint, been in her bedthirty years. She and Melody keep a small private heaven, and Vesta isthe only sinner admitted. "

"Doctor, you're very profane, " said Miss Vesta, reprovingly. "I'venever seen my sister Rejoice angry, sir, except that one time, when Itold 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 cameaway, and she won't dare to mistreat it for one while, ' I said. 'Goand get it!' says my sister Rejoice. 'How dared you come home withoutit? Go and get it this minute, do you hear?' I stared as if I had seena vision. 'Rejoice, what are you thinking of?' I asked. 'Bring thatchild 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 elseshall take care of it, ' she says, as if she was Bunker Hill Monumenton a pillow. 'Go and get it this minute, Vesta. Don't wait; the Lordmust not be kept waiting. Go, I tell you!' She looked so wild I wasfairly frightened; so I tried to quiet her. I thought her mind wastouched, some way. 'Well, I'll go to-morrow, ' says I, soothing her; 'Icouldn't go now, anyhow, Rejoice. Just hear it rain and blow! It cameon just as I stepped inside the door, and it's a regular storm now. Bequiet, ' I said, 'and I'll go up in the morning and see about it. ' Mysister sat right up in the bed. 'You'll go now, ' she says, 'or I'll gomyself. Now, this living minute! Quick!' I went, sir. The fire in hereyes would have scorched me if I had looked at it a minute longer. Ithought she was coming out of the bed after me, --she, who had notstirred for twenty years. I caught up a shawl, threw another over myshoulders, and ran for the poor-farm. 'T was a perfect tempest, but Inever felt it. Something seemed to drive me, as if it was a whip laidacross my shoulders. I thought it was my sister's eyes, that had neverlooked hard at me since she was born; but maybe it was something elsebesides. They say there are no miracles in these days, but we don'tknow 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 thecradle, and wrapped it in the shawl I'd brought, and ran off againbefore they'd got their eyes shut from staring at me as if I was aspirit 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 mysister Rejoice. "

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

CHAPTER III. 

ON THE ROAD. 

Melody went singing down the road. She walked quickly, with a lightswaying motion, graceful as a bird. Her hands were held before her, not, it seemed, from timidity, but rather as a butterfly stretches outits delicate antennae, touching, feeling, trying its way, as it goesfrom flower to flower. Truly, the child's light fingers were likebutterflies, as she walked beside the road, reaching up to touch thehanging sprays of its bordering willows, or caressing the tiny flowersthat sprang up along the footpath. She sang, too, as she went, a songthe 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 lookinginto the fair face of the child. Now she stopped, and stood for amoment with head thrown back, and nostrils slightly distended. "Meadow-sweet!" she said softly to herself. "Isn't it out early? thedear. I must find it for Aunt Joy. " She stooped, and passed her light, quick hands over the wayside grasses. Every blade and leaf was afamiliar friend, and she greeted them as she touched them, weavingtheir 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 thewords, and Rosin shall make the music; and we will go through thevillage 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 wentalong. "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 dreadfulit would have been! Of course it doesn't matter when you have neverseen 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 brightenedagain, --"he _isn't_ going to be blind, you see, so what's the use ofworrying 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 wheelswas faintly audible. No one else could have heard it but Melody, whoseears were like those of a fox. "Whose wagon squeaks like that?" shesaid, as she listened. "The horse interferes, too. Oh, of course; it'sEben Loomis. He'll pick me up and give me a ride, and then it won'ttake so long. " She walked along, turning back every now and then, asthe sound of wheels came nearer and nearer. At last, "Good-morning, Eben!" she cried, smiling as the wagon drove up; "will you take me ona piece, please?"

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

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

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

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

"Well, that's so, " assented the man, after a thoughtful pause. "Thatis so, Mel'dy, though how you come to-know it is a myst'ry to me. Cometo think of it, I dono but she's a leetle mite better than she was sixyears ago. Wal! now it's surprising ain't it, that you should knowthat, 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?" Heturned on his seat, and looked keenly at the child, as if halfexpecting her to meet his gaze. 

"It's easy enough!" said Melody, with her quiet smile. "It's justbecause you see her so much, Eben. That you can't tell. Besides, I cantell from Mandy's voice. Her voice used to go down when she stoppedspeaking, like this, 'How do you _do_?' [with a falling inflectionwhich was the very essence of melancholy]; and now her voice goes upcheerfully, 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_ doyou 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'yousay you was goin'?" he added, after a pause. 

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

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

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

"Wal, that's so, " assented Eben, --"that's so, every time. I was downthere a spell back, and I says, 'Phoebe, ' I says, 'don't you do athing folks tells you, ' says I. 'Dr. Brown knows what he's about, anddon't you do a thing but what he says, unless it's jest to wet hiseyes up with a drop o' tobacco-juice, ' says I. 'There's nothin' liketobacco-juice for weakly eyes, that's sure;' and of course I knewDoctor would ha' said so himself ef he'd ha' been there. Wal, here webe to Jackson's now, " added the good man, pulling up his horse. "Holdon a minute, and I'll help ye down. Wal, there!" as Melody spranglightly from the wagon, just touching his hand by way of greeting asshe 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 turnedtoward-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' victualswith 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 wonderingadmiration. 

"That child knows more than most folks that hev their sight!" hesoliloquized. "What's she doin' now? Oh, stoppin' to pick a posy, forthe child, likely. Now they'll all swaller her alive. Yes; thar theycome. Look at the way she takes that child up, now, will ye? He's e'ena'most as big as she is; but you'd say she was his mother ten timesover, from the way she handles him. Look at her set down on thedoorstep, tellin' him a story, I'll bet. I tell ye! hear that littlefeller laugh, and he was cryin' all last night, Mandy says. I wouldn'tmind hearin' that story myself. Faculty, that gal has; that's the namefor it, sir. Git up, Jerry! this won't buy the child a cake;" and withmany 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 cameslowly along the road that led to the village. He was tall and thin, and he stooped as he walked, --not with the ordinary round-shoulderedslouch, but with a one-sided droop, as if he had a habit of bendingover something. His white hair was fancifully arranged, with a curlover the forehead such as little boys used to wear; his brown eyeswere bright and quick as a bird's, and like a bird's, they glancedfrom side to side, taking in everything. He carried an oblong blackbox, evidently a violin-case, at which he cast an affectionate lookfrom time to time. As he approached the village, his glances becamemore and more keenly intelligent. He seemed to be greeting a friend inevery tree, in every straggling rose-bush along the roadside; henodded his head, and spoke softly from time to time. 

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

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

Do people still play "Rosin the Beau, " I wonder? I asked a violinistto play it to me the other day, and he had never heard of the tune. Heplayed me something else, which he said was very fine, --a fantasia inE 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 afiddle-bow could play in his sleep fifty years ago, and which is nowwellnigh forgotten. It is not a beautiful air; it may have no merit atall, musically speaking; but I love it well, and wish I might hear itoccasionally instead of the odious "Carnival of Venice, " whichtortures my ears and wastes my nervous system at every concert wherethe Queen of Instruments holds her court. 

The old man took up his fiddle, and laid his cheek lovingly againstit. A moment he stood still, as if holding silent commune with thespirit 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 eyesfixed on the bend of the road some rods ahead, as if expecting everymoment 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, roundthe corner a figure came flying, --a child's figure, with hair allafloat, and arms wide-opened. The old man's face lightened, softened, became transfigured with joy and love; but he said no word, onlyplayed steadily on. 

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

"Melody, " he said tenderly, taking the child on his knee, --"littleMelody, how are you? So you heard old Rosin, did you? You knew the oldman was here, waiting for his little maid to come and meet him, as shealways has. Where were you, Melody? Tell me, now. I didn't seem tohear 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 forwild strawberries, with Aunt Vesta. I heard you, Rosin, the moment youlaid your bow across her; but Aunt Vesta said no, she knew it was allnonsense, and we'd better finish our strawberries, anyhow. And then Iheard that you wondered why I didn't come, and that you wanted me, andI kissed Auntie, and just flew. You heard how fast I was coming, whenyou did hear me; didn't you, Rosin dear?"

"I heard, " said the old man, smoothing her curls back. "I knew you'dcome, you see, jewel, soon as you could get here. And how are the goodladies, hey; and how are you yourself?--though I can tell that bylooking at you, sure enough. "

"Do I look well?" asked the child, with much interest. "Is my hairvery nice and curly, Rosin, and do my eyes still look as if they werereal eyes?" She looked up so brightly that any stranger would havebeen 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 yourhair--"

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

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

That's a ballad, Rosin; Doctor taught it to me. It is a beauty, andyou 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 downthe earth, Melody. Sometimes here and sometimes there. I'd feel a callhere, 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 peoplewho call you can't get you, Rosin, 'cause you'd be in fifty pieces ifthey did. " She laughed joyously, throwing her head back with thebirdlike, rapturous motion which seemed the very expression of hernature. 

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

He paused, and looked critically at his blue coat, which, thoughthreadbare, was scrupulously clean. He flecked some imaginary dustfrom his trousers, and ran his hand lightly through his hair, bringingthe snowy curl which was the pride of his heart a little farther overhis forehead. "Now I'll do, maybe, " he said cheerfully. "And sureenough, there's Miss Vesta in the doorway, looking like a China rosein full bloom. " He advanced, hat in hand, with a peculiar slidingstep, 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 isa pleasure! Melody was sure it was you, and she ran off like awill-o'-the-wisp, when I could not hear a sound. But I'm very glad tosee you. We were saying only yesterday how long a time it was sinceyou'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 shecan hear you. "

She hastened into the house; and in a few minutes the blinds werethrown 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 bowto the window. "It's a treat to hear your voice, Miss Rejoice, so itis, " 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 Iwas here. "

"Oh, I'm very well, " responded the invalid, cheerfully. "Very well, Ifeel this summer; don't I, Vesta? And where have you been, Mr. DeArthenay, 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 ina corner of the porch, with Melody's hand in his. Miss Vesta producedher knitting; Melody gave a little sigh of perfect content, andnestled up to her friend's side, leaning her head against hisshoulder. 

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

"Tell you everything, " he repeated thoughtfully. "Not all, littleMelody. I've seen some things that you wouldn't like to hearabout, --things that would grieve your tender heart more than a little. We will not talk about those; but I have seen bright things too, sureenough. Why, only day before yesterday I was at a wedding, over inPegrum; a pretty wedding it was too. You remember Myra Bassett, MissVesta?"

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

"A daughter!" said the old man, --"the prettiest girl in Pegrum. Like aripe chestnut, more than anything. Two lads were in love with her;there may have been a dozen, but these two I know about. One ofthem--I'll name no names, 'tis kinder not--found that she wanted tomarry a hero (what girl does not?), so he thought he would try hishand 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 shewas in, so that he, the lover, might save her life. But, lo andbehold! he was taken with a cramp in the water, and was almostdrowned, and the second lover jumped in, and saved them both. So shemarried the second (whom she had liked all along), and then the boytold his story. "

"Miserable sneak!" ejaculated Miss Vesta. "To risk the life of thewoman 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 forthe righteous who suffered. _They_ would be sure to get good out ofit, she said, but the poor sinners generally didn't know how. ) "Whatdid he do, poor soul?"

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

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

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

"Miss Andrews--I beg her pardon, Mrs. Nelson--had on a white muslingown, made quite full, with three ruffles round the skirt. There waslace round the neck, but I cannot tell you what kind, except that itwas 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 browndiamonds, and she had little white satin slippers, for all the worldlike Cinderella. They were a present from her Grandmother Anstey, overat Bow Mills. Her other grandmother, Mrs. Bowen, gave her the dress, so her father and mother could lay out all they wanted to on thesupper; and a handsome supper it was. Then after supper they danced. It would have done your heart good, Miss Vesta, to see that littlebride dance. Ah! she is a pretty creature. There was another youngwoman, too, who played the piano. Kate, they called her, but I don'tknow what her other name was. Anyway, she had an eye like blacklightning stirred up with a laugh, and a voice like the 'Fisherman'sHornpipe. '"

He took up his fiddle, and softly, delicately, played a few bars ofthat immortal dance. It rippled like a woman's laugh, and Melodysmiled 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!" thefiddler replied. "No Yankee ever played dance-music in that fashion; Imade bold to say to her, as we were playing together, 'Etes-vouscompatriote?'

"'More power to your elbow, ' said she, with a twinkle of her eye, andshe struck into 'Saint Patrick's Day in the Morning. ' I took it up, and played the 'Marseillaise, ' over it and under it, and roundit, --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, andit was a fine wedding altogether. 

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

"That is good news!" exclaimed Miss Vesta, heartily. "Poor Lovina! shehas been so straitened all these years, and saw no prospect ofanything better. The best day's work Reuel Green has ever done was todie 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, mydear, as well as I do. Any other news in Joppa, Mr. De Arthenay? Ihaven't heard from over there for a long time. "

"Why, they've been having some robberies in Joppa, " the old mansaid, --"regular burglaries. There's been a great excitement about it. Several houses have been entered and robbed, some of money, others ofwhat little silver there was, though I don't suppose there is enoughsilver in all New Joppa to support a good, healthy burglar for morethan 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 thensettled back with her former air of content, knowing that all waswell. 

"You shall hear my story, " the old man said, drawing himself up, andgiving his curl a toss. "It was the night I came away from Joppa. Ihad been taking tea with William Bradwell's folks, and stayed ratherlate 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-nightand stepped out of the house and along the road. 'T was a fine night, bright moonlight, and everything shining like silver. I'd had apleasant 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'dleft her case at the house, seeing I should pass by again in themorning, when I took my way out of the place. 

"Well, sir, --I beg your pardon; _ladies_, I should say, --as I camealong a strip of the road with the moon full on it, but bordered withwillow scrub, --as I came along, sudden a man stepped out of thosebushes, and told me to stand and throw up my hands. --Don't befrightened, 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 sneakand bully. So I said, 'Stand yourself!' I stepped clear out, so thatthe light fell full on my face, and I looked him in the eye, andpointed my bow at him. 'My name is De Arthenay, ' I said. 'I am ofFrench extraction, but I hail from the Androscoggin. I am known inthis country. This is my fiddle-bow; and if you are not gone before Ican count three, I'll shoot you with it. One!' I said; but I didn'tneed to count further. He turned and ran, as if the--as if a regimentwas after him; and as soon as I had done laughing, I went on my way tothe tavern. "

All laughed heartily at the old man's story; but when the laughtersubsided, Melody begged him to take "the Lady, " and play for her. "Ihave not heard you play for so long, Rosin, except just when youcalled 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; howwould you like that?"

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

She started up; and while the fiddler played, old sweet melodies, suchas Miss Rejoice loved, there was a pleasant, subdued bustle of comingand going, clinking and rustling, as the little table was brought outand set in the vine-wreathed porch, the snowy cloth laid, and thesimple feast set forth. There were wild strawberries, fresh andglowing, laid on vine-leaves; there were biscuits so light it seemedas if a puff of wind might blow them away; there were twisteddoughnuts, and coffee brown and as clear as a mountain brook. It was apleasant little feast; and the old fiddler glanced with cheerfulapproval over the table as he sat down. 

"Ah, Miss Vesta, " he said, as he handed the biscuits gallantly to hishostess, "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, Icall them. Take one, Melody, my dear. You'll never get anything betterto eat in this world. "

The child flushed with pleasure. 

"You're praising her too much to herself, " said Miss Vesta, with apleased smile. "Melody made those biscuit, all herself, without anyhelp. 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 goingto 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, Ishould say, and you've a right good start toward it now. "

A shade stole over the child's bright face, and she wassilent, --seeming only half to listen while the others chatted, yetnever forgetting to serve them, and seeming, by a touch on the handof either friend, to know what was wanted. 

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

"What troubles the child?" the old man asked gently. "She does notwant 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 theold man's hand, swaying lightly to and fro, as if the wind moved herwith the vines and flowers. "Why can't I stay a little girl? A littlegirl is needed here, isn't she? And there is no need at all of anotherwoman. I can't be like Aunt Vesta or Auntie Joy; so I think I mightstay just Melody. " Then shaking her curls back, she cried, "Well, anyhow, I am just Melody now, and nothing more; and I mean to make themost of it. Come, Rosin, come! I am ready for music. The dishes areall washed, and there's nothing more to do, is there, Auntie? It is solong since Rosin has been here; now let us have a good time, a perfecttime!"

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

Melody sat down on the little green bench which was her own particularseat. She folded her hands lightly on her lap, and threw her head backwith her own birdlike gesture. One would have said that she wascalling the spirit of song, which might descend on rainbow wings, andfold her in his arms. The old man drew the bow softly, and the fiddlegave 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, whoseglorious voice floated out on the evening air, filling the whole worldwith sweetest melody. Miss Vesta dropped her knitting and folded herhands, while a peaceful, dreamy look stole into her fine face, --a facewhose only fault was the too eager look which a New England woman mustso often gain, whether she will or no. In the quiet chamber, thebedridden woman lay back on her pillows smiling, with a face as theface of an angel. Her thoughts were lifted up on the wings of themusic, 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 ofheaven itself; if it were so, be sure they saw nothing within thatwhite portal more pure and clear than their own gaze. 

And still the song flowed on. Presently doors began to open along thevillage street. People came softly out, came on tiptoe toward thecottage, and with a silent greeting to its owner sat down beside theroad to listen. Children came dancing, with feet almost as light asMelody's own, and curled themselves up beside her on the grass. Tired-looking mothers came, with their babies in their arms; and theweary wrinkles faded from their faces, and they listened in silentcontent, while the little ones, who perhaps had been fretting andcomplaining a moment before, nestled now quietly against themother-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 oneof these women a man came and sat him down, as if from habit; but hedid not look at her. His face wore a weary, moody frown, and he staredat the ground sullenly, taking no note of any one. The others lookedat one another and nodded, and thought of the things they knew; thewoman cast a sidelong glance at him, half hopeful, half fearful, butmade 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, thiswoman by his side. They had been schoolmates together, had gatheredflowers, oh, how many times, by brook-side and hill. They had grown upto be lovers, and she was his wife, sitting here now beside him, --hiswife, with his baby in her arms; and he had not spoken to her for aweek. What began it all? He hardly knew; but she had been provoking, and he had been tired, impatient; there had been a great scene, andthen this silence, which he swore he would not break. How sad shelooked! he thought, as he stole a glance at the face bending over thechild. 

 "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, andwished them happiness, and said they were the handsomest couple he hadplayed for that year. Now she looked so tired: how was it that he hadnever seen how tired she looked? Perhaps she was only sick or nervousthat 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 theother arm. The young man bent forward and took the baby, and felt howheavy it had grown since last he held it. He had not said anything, hewould not say anything--just yet; but his wife turned to him with sucha smile, such a flash of love and joy, imploring, promising, that hisheart leaped, and then beat peacefully, happily, as it had not beatenfor many days. All was over; and Alice leaned against his arm with alittle movement of content, and the good neighbors looked at oneanother again, and smiled this time to know that all was well. 

What is the song now? The blind child turns slightly, so that shefaces 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 couldhardly tell, if she would. She looks very stately as she leans againstthe wall, close by the room where her sister Rejoice is lying. Does athought come to her mind of the youth who loved her so, or thought heloved her, long and long ago? Does she see his look of dismay, ofincredulous anger, when she told him that her life must be given toher crippled sister, and that if he would share it he must takeRejoice 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, butthere was nothing of the hero about him, and he thought that crippledfolk 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-hairedwoman, with her keen blue eyes and queenly bearing. 

Miss Vesta had never for an instant regretted the disposition of herlife, never even in the shadow of a thought; but this was the song sheused 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 thechild 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 hasbeen leaning against the wall pulling off the gray lichens as shelistened, now slips away, and goes home and writes a letter; andto-morrow morning, when the mail goes to the next village, two peoplewill 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 happychild; and though she loves the sad songs dearly, still she generallylikes 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. Trilland quavers and roulades are shaken from his bow as lightly as foamfrom the prow of a ship. The music leaps rollicking up and down, hereand there, till the air is all a-quiver with merriment. The old mandraws himself up to his full height, all save that loving bend of thehead over the beloved instrument. His long slender foot, in its quaint"Congress" shoe, beats time like a mill-clapper, --tap, tap, tap; hissnowy curl dances over his forehead, his brown eyes twinkle with prideand pleasure. Other feet beside his began to pat the ground; headswere lifted, eyes looked invitation and response. At length the childMelody, with one superb outburst of song, lifted her hands above herhead, and springing out into the road cried, "A dance! a dance!"

Instantly the quiet road was alive with dancers. Old and young sprangto their feet in joyful response. The fiddle struck into "The IrishWasherwoman, " and the people danced. Children joined hands and jumpedup and down, knowing no steps save Nature's leaps of joy; youths andmaidens flew in graceful measures together; last, but not least, oldSimon Parker the postmaster seized Mrs. Martha Penny by both hands, and regardless of her breathless shrieks whirled her round and roundtill the poor old dame had no breath left to scream with. Alone in themidst of the gay throng (as strange a one, surely, as ever disturbedthe quiet of a New England country road) danced the blind child, afigure of perfect grace. Who taught Melody to dance? Surely it was thewind, the swaying birch-tree, the slender grasses that nod and wave bythe brookside. Light as air she floated in and out among the motleygroups, never jostling or touching any one. Her slender arms waved intime to the music; her beautiful hair floated over her shoulders. Herwhole face glowed with light and joy, while only her eyes, steadfastand unchanging, struck the one grave note in the symphony of joy andmerriment. 

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 theground. She moved slightly, swayed on her seat; her fingers beat time, as did the slender, well-shaped foot which peeped from under her scantblue skirt. Suddenly De Arthenay stopped short, and tapped sharply onhis fiddle, while the dancers, breathless and exhausted, fell back bythe roadside again. Stepping out from the porch, he made a low bow toMiss Vesta. "Chorus Jig!" he cried, and struck up the air of thattime-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 wildgrace of movement, or the sudden madness of the village crowd. Thestately white-haired woman moved slowly forward; the old man bowedagain; she courtesied as became a duchess of Nature's own making. Their bodies erect and motionless, their heads held high, their feetwent twinkling through a series of evolutions which the keenest eyecould hardly follow. "Pigeon-wings?" Whole flocks of pigeons tookflight from under that scant blue skirt, from those wonderful shrunkentrousers of yellow nankeen. They moved forward, back, forward again, as smoothly as a wave glides up the shore. They twinkled round andround each other, now back to back, now face to face. They chassédinto 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 fundisturbed the tranquil sternness of their look; for dancing was aserious business thirty years ago, when they were young, and they hadno idea of lowering its dignity by any "quips and cranks and wantonwiles, " such as young folks nowadays indulge in. Briefly, it was awork of art; and when it was over, and the sweeping courtesy andsplendid bow had restored the old-time dancers to their places, ashout of applause went up, and the air rang with such a tumult as hadnever before, perhaps, disturbed the tranquillity of the country road. 

CHAPTER V. 

IN THE CHURCHYARD. 

God's Acre! A New England burying-ground, --who does not know theaspect of the place? A savage plot of ground, where nothing else wouldgrow save this crop of gray stones, and other gray stones formless andgrim, thrusting their rugged faces out here and there through thescanty soil. Other stones, again, enclosing the whole with a grim, protecting arm, a ragged wall, all jagged, formless, rough. The grassis long and yet sparse; here and there a few flowers cling, hardygeraniums, lychnis, and the like, but they seem strangely out ofplace. The stones are fallen awry, and lean toward each other as ifthey exchanged confidences, and speculated on the probable spiritualwhereabouts of the souls whose former bodies they guard. Most of thesestones are gray slate, carved with old-fashioned letters, round andlong-tailed; but there are a few slabs of white marble, and in onecorner is a marble lamb, looking singularly like the woolly lambs onebuys for children, standing stiff and solemn on his four straightlegs. This is not the "cemetery, " be it understood. That is close bythe village, and is the favorite walk and place of Sunday resort forits inhabitants. It is trim and well-kept, with gravel paths andflower-beds, and store of urns and images in "white bronze, " for thepeople are proud of their cemetery, as well-regulated New Englandpeople should be, and there is a proper feeling of rivalry in thematter of "moniments. "

But Melody cares nothing whatever about the fine cemetery. It is inthe old "berrin'-groun'" that her mother lies, --indeed, she was thelast person buried in it; and it is here that the child loves tolinger and dream the sweet, sad, purposeless dreams of childhood. Sheknows nothing of "Old Mortality, " yet she is his childish imitator inthis lonely spot. She keeps the weeds in some sort of subjection; shepulls away the moss and lichens from head and foot stones, --not somuch with any idea of reverence as that she likes to read theinscriptions, and feel the quaint flourishes and curlicues of theolder gravestones. She has a sense of personal acquaintance with allthe dwellers on this hillside; talks to them and sings to them in herhappy fashion, as she pulls away the witch-grass and sorrel. See hernow, sitting on that low green mound, her white dress gleaming againstthe dusky gray of the stone on which she leans. Melody is very fond ofwhite. It feels smoother than colors, she always says; and she wouldwear it constantly if it did not make too much washing. One arm isthrown over the curve of the headstone, while with the other hand shefollows the worn letters of the inscription, which surely no otherfingers were fine enough to trace. 

 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

 SUSAN DYER. 

 TRUE TO HER NAME, She died Aug. 10th, 1814, In the 19th year of her age. 

 The soul of my Susan is gone To heighten the triumphs above; Exalted to Jesus's throne And clasped in the arms of his love. 

Melody read the words aloud, smiling as she read. "Susan, " she said, "I wonder who wrote your verses. I wonder if you were pretty, dear, and if you liked to be alive, and were sorry to be dead. But you mustbe used to it by this time, anyhow. I wonder if you 'shout redeeminglove, ' like your cousin (I suppose she is your cousin) Sophia Dyer, over in the corner there. I never liked Sophia, Susan dear. I seem tothink she shouted here too, and snubbed you, because you were gentleand shy. See how her stone perks up, making every inch it can ofitself, while yours tries to sink away and hide itself in the goodgreen grass. I think we liked the same things a good deal, Susan, don't you? And I think you would like me to go and see the oldgentleman now, because he has so many dandelions; and I really mustpull them up. You know I am never sure that he isn't your grandfather. So many of you are related here, it is a regular family party. Good-by, Susan dear. "

She bent over, and touched the stone lightly with her lips, thenpassed on to another which was half buried in the earth, the lastletters of the inscription being barely discernible. 

"How do you do, Mr. Bascom?" said this singular child, laying her handrespectfully on the venerable headstone. "Are your dandelions verytroublesome this morning, dear sir?"

Her light fingers hovered over the mound like butterflies, and shebegan pulling up the dandelion roots, and smoothing down the grassover the bare places. Then she fell to work on the inscription, whichwas an elaborate one, surmounted by two cherubs' heads, one resting onan hour-glass, the other on a pair of cross-bones. Along every lineshe passed her delicate fingers, not because she did not know everyline, but that she might trace any new growth of moss or lichen. 

 "Farewell this flesh, these ears, these eyes, Those snares and fetters of the mind My God, nor let this frame arise Till every dust be well refined. "

"You were very particular, Mr. Bascom, weren't you?" inquired Melody. "You were a very neat old gentleman, with white hair always brushedjust so, and a high collar. You didn't like dust, unless it was wellrefined. I shouldn't wonder if you washed your walking-stick everytime you came home, like Mr. Cuter, over at the Corners. Here'ssomething growing in the tail of your last _y_. Never mind, Mr. Bascom, I'll get it out with a pin. There, now you are quiterespectable, and you look very nice indeed. Good-by, and do try not tofret more than you can help about the dandelions. They will grow, nomatter how often I come. "

Melody, in common with most blind persons, always spoke of seeing, oflooking at things, precisely as if she had the full use of her eyes. Indeed, I question whether those wonderful fingers of hers were not asgood as many pairs of eyes we see. How many people go half-blindthrough the world, just for want of the habit of looking at things!How many plod onward, with eyes fixed on the ground, when they mightbe raised to the skies, seeing the glory of the Lord, which He hasspread abroad over hill and meadow, for all eyes to behold! How manywalk with introverted gaze, seeing only themselves, while theirneighbor walks beside them, unseen, and needing their ministration!

The blind child touched life with her hand, and knew it. Every leafwas her acquaintance, every flower her friend and gossip. She knewevery tree of the forest by its bark; knew when it blossomed, and how. More than this, --some subtle sense for which we have no name gave herthe power of reading with a touch the mood and humor of those she waswith; and when her hand rested in that of a friend, she knew whetherthe friend were glad or gay, before hearing the sound of his voice. 

Another power she had, --that of attracting to her "all creaturesliving beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run. " Not a cator dog in the village but would leave his own master or mistress at asingle call from Melody. She could imitate every bird-call with herwonderful voice; and one day she had come home and told Miss Rejoicequietly that she had been making a concert with a wood-thrush, andthat the red squirrels had sat on the branches to listen. Miss Vestasaid, "Nonsense, child! you fell asleep, and had a pretty dream. " ButMiss Rejoice believed every word, and Melody knew she did by the touchof her thin, kind old hand. 

It might well have been true; for now, as the child sat down beside asmall white stone, which evidently marked a child's grave, she gave alow call, and in a moment a gray squirrel came running from the stonewall (he had been sitting there, watching her with his bright blackeyes, looking so like a bit of the wall itself that the sharpest eyeswould hardly have noticed him), and leaped into her lap. 

"Brother Gray-frock, how do you do?" cried the child, joyously, caressing the pretty creature with light touches. "I wondered if Ishould see you to-day, brother. The last time I came you were offhunting somewhere, and I called and called, but no gray brother came. How is the wife, and the children, and how is the stout young man?"

The "stout young man" lay buried at the farther end of the ground, under the tree in which the squirrel lived. The inscription on histombstone was a perpetual amusement to Melody, and she could not helpfeeling as if the squirrel must know that it was funny too, thoughthey had never exchanged remarks about it. This was the inscription:

 "I was a stout young man As you would find in ten; And when on this I think, I take in hand my pen And write it plainly out, That all the world may see How I was cut down like A blossom from a tree. The Lord rest my soul. "

The young man's name was Faithful Parker. Melody liked him wellenough, though she never felt intimate with him, as she did with SusanDyer and the dear child Love Good, who slept beneath this low whitestone. This was Melody's favorite grave. It was such a dear quaintlittle name, --Love Good. "Good" had been a common name in the villageseventy years ago, when this little Love lived and died; many gravesbore the name, though no living person now claimed it. 

 LOVE GOOD, FOUR YEARS OLD. 

 Our white rose withered in the bud. 

This was all; and somehow Melody felt that she knew and cared forthese parents much more than for those who put their sorrow intorhyme, and mourned in despairing doggerel. 

Melody laid her soft warm cheek against the little white stone, andmurmured loving words to it. The squirrel sat still in her lap, content to nestle under her hand, and bask in the light and warmth ofthe summer day: the sunlight streamed with tempered glow through thebranches of an old cedar that grew beside the little grave; peace andsilence brooded like a dove over the holy place. 

A flutter of wings, a rustle of leaves, --was it a fairy alighting onthe old cedar-tree? No, only an oriole; though some have said thatthis bird is a fairy prince in disguise, and that if he can win thelove of a pure maiden the spell will be loosed, and he will regain hisown form. This cannot be true, however; for Melody knows Golden Robinwell, and loves him well, and he loves her in his own way, yet hasnever changed a feather at sight of her. He will sing for her, though;and sing he does, shaking and trilling and quivering, pouring hislittle soul out in melody for joy of the summer day, and of the sweet, quiet place, and of the child who never scares or startles him, onlysmiles, and sings to him in return. They are singing together now, thechild and the bird. It is a very wonderful thing, if there were anyone by to hear. The gray squirrel crouches motionless in the child'slap, with half-shut eyes; the quiet dead sleep on unmoved: who elseshould be near to listen to such music as this?

Nay, but who is this, leaning over the old stone-wall, listening withkeenest interest, --this man with the dark, eager face and bold blackeyes? His eyes are fixed on the child; his face is aglow with wonderand delight, but with something else too, --some passion which strikesa jarring note through the harmony of the summer idyl. What is thisman doing here? Why does he eye the blind child so strangely, withlooks of power, almost of possession?

Cease, cease your song, Melody! Fly, bird and tiny beast, to yourshelter in the dark tree-tops; and fly you also, gentlest child, tothe home where is love and protection and tender care! For the charmis broken, and your paradise is invaded. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE SERPENT. 

"But I'm sure you will listen to reason, ma'am. "

The stranger spoke in a low, persuasive tone; his eyes glanced rapidlyhither and thither as he spoke, taking the bearings of house andgarden, noting the turn of the road, the distance of the neighboringhouses. One would have said he was a surveyor, only he had noinstruments with him. 

"I am sure you will listen to reason, --a fine, intelligent lady likeyourself. Think of it: there is a fortune in this child's voice. Therehasn't been such a voice--there's never been such a voice in thiscountry, I'll be bold to say. I know something about voices, ma'am. I've been in the concert business twenty years, and I do assure you Ihave never heard such a natural voice as this child has. She has agreat career before her, I tell you. Money, ma'am! there's thousandsin that voice! It sings bank-notes and gold-pieces, every note of it. You'll be a rich woman, and she will be a great singer, --one of thevery greatest. Her being blind makes it all the better. I wouldn'thave her like other people, not for anything. The blind prima-donna, --my stars! wouldn't it draw? I see the posters now. 'Nature's greatestmarvel, the blind singer! Splendid talent enveloped in darkness. ' Shewill be the success of the day, ma'am. Lord, and to think of mychancing on her here, of all the little out-of-the-way places in theworld! Why, three hours ago I was cursing my luck, when my horse losta shoe and went lame, just outside your pleasant little town here. Andnow, ma'am, now I count this the most fortunate day of my life! Is thelittle lady in the house, ma'am? I'd like to have a little talk withher; kind o' open her eyes to what's before her, --her mind's eye, Horatio, eh? Know anything of Shakspeare, ma'am? Is she in the house, I say?"

"She is not, " said Miss Vesta Dale, finding her voice at last. "Thechild is away, and you should not see her if she were here. She is notmeant for the sort of thing you talk about. She--she is the same asour own child, my sister's and mine. We mean to keep her by us as longas we live. I thank you, " she added, with stately courtesy. "I don'tdoubt that many might be glad of such a chance, but we are not thatkind, my sister and I. "

The man's face fell; but the next moment he looked incredulous. "Youdon't mean what you say, ma'am!" he cried; "you can't mean it! To keepa voice like that shut up in a God-forsaken little hole likethis, --oh, you don't know what you're talking about, really youdon't. ' And think of the advantage to the child herself!" He saw thewoman's face change at this, saw that he had made a point, andhastened to pursue it. "What can the child have, if she spends herlife here? No education, no pleasure, --nothing. Nice little place, nodoubt, for those that are used to it, but--Lord! a child that has thewhole world before her, to pick and choose! She must go to Europe, ma'am! She will sing before crowned heads; go to Russia, and bedecorated by the Czar. She'll have horses and carriages, jewels, dresses finer than any queen! Patti spends three fortunes a year onher clothes, and this girl has as good a voice as Patti, any day. Why, you have to support her, don't you?--and hard work, too, sometimes, perhaps--her and maybe others?"

Miss Vesta winced; and he saw it. Oh, Rejoice! it was a joy to saveand spare, to deny herself any little luxury, that the beloved sistermight have everything she fancied. But did she have everything? Wasit, could it be possible that this should be done for her sister'ssake?

The man pursued his advantage relentlessly. "You are a fine woman, ma'am, if you'll allow me to say so, --a remarkably fine woman. But youare getting on in life, as we all are. This child will support you, ma'am, instead of your supporting her. Support you, do I say? Why, you'll be rolling in wealth in a few years! You spoke of a sister, ma'am. Is she in good health, may I ask?" His quick eye had spied thewhite-curtained bed through the vine-clad window, and his ear hadcaught the tender tone of her voice when she said, "my sister. "

"My sister is an invalid, " said Miss Vesta, coldly. 

"Another point!" exclaimed the impresario. "You will be able to haveevery luxury for your sister, --wines, fruits, travelling, the bestmedical aid the country affords. You are the--a--the steward, I maysay, ma'am, "--with subtle intuition, the man assumed a tone of moralloftiness, as if calling Miss Vesta to account for all delinquencies, past and future, --"the steward, or even the stewardess, of this greattreasure. It means everything for you and her, and for your invalidsister as well. Think of it, think of it well! I am so confident ofyour answer that I can well afford to wait a little. Take a fewminutes, ma'am, and think it over. "

He leaned against the house in an easy attitude, with his hands in hispockets, and his mouth pursed up for a whistle. He did not feel asconfident as he looked, perhaps, but Miss Vesta did not know that. Shealso leaned against the house, her head resting among the vines thatscreened Miss Rejoice's window, and thought intensely. What was right?What should she do? Half an hour ago life lay so clear and plainbefore her; the line of happy duties, simple pleasures, was sostraight, leading from the cottage door to that quiet spot in the oldburying-ground where she and Rejoice would one day rest side by side. They had taught Melody what they could. She had books in raised print, sent regularly from the institution where she had learned to read andwrite. She was happy; no child could ever have been happier, MissVesta thought, if she had had three pairs of eyes. She was the heartof the village, its pride, its wonder. They had looked forward to alife of simple usefulness and kindliness for her, tending the sickwith that marvellous skill which seemed a special gift from Heaven;cheering, comforting, delighting old and young, by the magic of hervoice and the gentle spell of her looks and ways. A quiet life, asimple, humdrum life, it might be: they had never thought of that. Butnow, what picture was this that the stranger had conjured up?

As in a glass, Miss Vesta seemed to see the whole thing. Melody awoman, a great singer, courted, caressed, living like a queen, witheverything rich and beautiful about her; jewels in her shining hair, splendid dresses, furs and laces, such as even elderly country womenlove to dream about sometimes. She saw this; and she saw somethingelse besides. The walls of the little room within seemed to part, toextend; it was no longer a tiny whitewashed closet, but stretched wideand long, rose lofty and airy. There were couches, wheeled chairs, great sunny windows, through which one looked out over lovely gardens;there were pictures, the most beautiful in the world, for those deareyes to rest on; banks of flowers, costly ornaments, everything thatluxury could devise or heart desire. And on one of these splendidcouches (oh, she could move as she pleased from one to the other, instead of lying always in the one narrow white bed!), --on one of themlay her sister Rejoice, in a lace wrapper, such as Miss Vesta had readabout once in a fashion magazine; all lace, creamy and soft, withdelicate ribbons here and there. There she lay; and yet--was it she?Miss Vesta tried hard to give life to this image, to make it smilewith her sister's eyes, and speak with her sister's voice; but it hada strange, shadowy look all the time, and whenever she forced thelikeness of Rejoice into her mind, somehow it came with the oldsurroundings, the little white bed, the yellow-washed walls, the oldgreen flag-bottomed chair on which the medicine-cups always stood. Butall the other things might be hers, just by Melody's singing. ByMelody's singing! Miss Vesta stood very still, her face quiet andstern, as it always was in thought, no sign of the struggle going onwithin. The stranger was very still too, biding his time, stealing anoccasional glance at her face, feeling tolerably sure of success, yetwishing she had not quite such a set look about the mouth. 

All by Melody's singing! No effort, no exertion for the child, onlythe thing she loved best in the world, --the thing she did every dayand all day. And all for Rejoice, for Rejoice, whom Melody loved so;for whom the child would count any toil, any privation, merely anadded pleasure, even as Vesta herself would. Miss Vesta held herbreath, and prayed. Would not God answer for her? She was only awoman, and very weak, though she had never guessed it till now. Godknew what the right thing was: would He not speak for her?

She looked up, and saw Melody coming down the road, leading a child ineach hand. She was smiling, and the children were laughing, thoughthere were traces of tears on their cheeks; for they had beenquarrelling when Melody found them in the fields and brought themaway. It was a pretty picture; the stranger's eyes brightened as hegazed at it. But for the first time in her life Miss Vesta was notglad to see Melody. The child began to sing, and the woman listenedfor the words, with a vague trouble darkening over her perturbedspirit as a thunder-cloud comes blackening a gray sky, filling it withangry mutterings, with quick flashes. What if the child should singthe wrong words, she thought! What were the wrong words, and howshould she know whether they were of God or the Devil?

It was an old song that Melody was singing; she knew few others, indeed, --only the last verse of an old song, which Vesta Dale hadheard all her life, and had never thought much about, save that it wasa good song, one of the kind Rejoice liked. 

 "There's a place that is better than this, Robin Ruff, And I hope in my heart you'll go there; Where the poor man's as great, Though he hath no estate, Ay, as though he'd a thousand a year, Robin Ruff, As though he'd a thousand a year'"

"So you see, " said Melody to the children, as they paced along, "itdoesn't make any real difference whether we have things or don't havethem. It's inside that one has to be happy; one can't be happy fromthe outside, ever. I should think it would be harder if one had lotsof things that one must think about, and take care of, and perhapsworry over. I often am so glad I haven't many things. "

They passed on, going down into the little meadow where the sweetrushes grew, for Melody knew that no child could stay cross when ithad sweet rushes to play with; and Miss Vesta turned to the strangerwith a quick, fierce movement. "Go away!" she cried. "You have youranswer. Not for fifty thousand fortunes should you have the child! Go, and never come here again!"

 * * * * *

It was two or three days after this that Dr. Brown was driving rapidlyhome toward the village. He had had a tiresome day, and he meant tohave a cup of Vesta Dale's good tea and a song from Melody to smoothdown his ruffled plumage, and to put him into good-humor again. Hispatients had been very trying, especially the last one he hadvisited, --an old lady who sent for him from ten miles' distance, andthen told him she had taken seventy-five bottles of Vegetine withoutbenefit, and wanted to know what she should do next. "I really do notknow, Madam, " the doctor replied, "unless you should pound up theseventy-five bottles with their labels, and take those. " Whereupon hegot into his buggy and drove off without another word. 

But the Dale girls and Melody--bless them all for a set ofangels!--would soon put him to rights again, thought the doctor, andhe would send old Mrs. Prabbles some pills in the morning. There wasnothing whatever the matter with the old harridan. Here was the turn;now in a moment he would see Vesta sitting in the doorway at herknitting, or looking out of Rejoice's window; and she would call thechild whom his heart loved, and then for a happy, peaceful evening, and all vexations forgotten!

But what was this? Instead of the trim, staid figure he looked to see, who was this frantic woman who came running toward him from the littlehouse, with white hair flying on the wind, with wild looks? Her dresswas disordered; her eyes stared in anguish; her lips stammered, makingconfused sounds, which at first had no meaning to the startled hearer. But he heard--oh, he heard and understood, when the distracted womangrasped his arm, and cried, --

"Melody is stolen! stolen! and Rejoice is dead!"

CHAPTER VII. 

LOST. 

Miss Rejoice was not dead; though the doctor had a moment of dreadfulfright when he saw her lying all crumpled up on the floor, her eyesclosed, her face like wrinkled wax. Between them, the doctor and MissVesta got her back into bed, and rubbed her hands, and put stimulantsbetween her closed lips. At last her breath began to flutter, and thencame back steadily. She opened her eyes; at first they were soft andmild as usual, but presently a wild look stole into them. 

"The child!" she whispered; "the child is gone!"

"We know it, " said Dr. Brown, quietly. "We shall find her, Rejoice, never fear. Now you must rest a few minutes, and then you shall tellus how it happened. Why, we found you on the floor, my child, "--MissRejoice was older than the doctor, but it seemed natural to call herby any term of endearment, --"how upon earth did you get there?"

Slowly, with many pauses for breath and composure, Miss Rejoice toldher story. It was short enough. Melody had been sitting with her, reading aloud from the great book which now lay face downward on thefloor by the window. Milton's "Paradise Lost" it was, and Rejoice Dalecould never bear to hear the book named in her life after this time. Acarriage drove up and stopped at the door, and Melody went out to seewho had come. As she went, she said, "It is a strange wagon; I havenever heard it before. " They both supposed it some stranger who hadstopped to ask for a glass of water, as people often did, drivingthrough the village on their way to the mountains. The sick womanheard a man speaking, in smooth, soft tones; she caught the words: "Alittle drive--fine afternoon;" and Melody's clear voice replying, "No, thank you, sir; you are very kind, but my aunt and I are alone, and Icould not leave her. Shall I bring you a glass of water?" Then--oh, then--there was a sound of steps, a startled murmur in the belovedvoice, and then a scream. Oh, such a scream! Rejoice Dale shrank downin her bed, and cried out herself in agony at the memory of it. Shehad called, she had shrieked aloud, the helpless creature, and heronly answer was another cry of anguish: "Help! help! Auntie! Doctor!Rosin! Oh, Rosin, Rosin, help!" Then the cry was muffled, stifled, sank away into dreadful silence; the wagon drove off, and all wasover. Rejoice Dale found herself on the floor, dragging herself alongon her elbows. Paralyzed from the waist down, the body was a wearyweight to drag, but she clutched at a chair, a table; gained a littleway at each movement; thought she was nearly at the door, when senseand strength failed, and she knew nothing more till she saw her sisterand the doctor bending over her. 

Then Miss Vesta, very pale, with lips that trembled, and voice thatwould not obey her will, but broke and quavered, and failed at times, like a strange instrument one has not learned how to master, --MissVesta told her story, of the dark stranger who had come three daysbefore and taken her up to a pinnacle, and showed her the kingdoms ofthe earth. 

"I did not tell you, Rejoice, " she cried, holding her sister's hand, and gazing into her face in an agony of self-reproach; "I did not tellyou, because I was really tempted, --not for myself, I do believe; I ampermitted to believe, and it is the one comfort I have, --but for you, Rejoice, my dear, and for the child herself. But mostly for you, oh, my God! mostly for you. And when I came to myself and knew you wouldrather die ten times over than have luxuries bought with the child'shappy, innocent life, --when I came to myself, I was ashamed, and didnot tell you, for I did not want you to think badly of me. If I hadtold you, you would have been on your guard, and have put me on mine;and I should never have left you, blind fool that I was, for you wouldhave showed me the danger. Doctor, we are two weak women, --she inbody, I in mind and heart. Tell us what we shall do, or I think wemust both die!"

Dr. Brown hardly heard her appeal, so deeply was he thinking, wondering, casting about in his mind for counsel. But Rejoice Daletook her sister's hand in hers. 

"'Though a thousand fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy righthand, yet it shall not come nigh thee, '" she said steadfastly. "Ourblind child is in her Father's hand, Sister; He leads her, and she cango nowhere without Him. Go you now, and seek for her. "

"I cannot!" cried Vesta Dale, wringing her hands and weeping. "Icannot leave you, Rejoice. You know I cannot leave you. "

Both women felt for the first time, with a pang unspeakable, theburden of restraint. The strong woman wrung her hands again, andmoaned like a dumb creature in pain; the helpless body of the cripplequivered and shrank away from itself, but the soul within was firm. 

"You must go, " said Miss Rejoice, quietly. "Neither of us could bearit if you stayed. If I know you are searching, I can be patient; and Ishall have help. "

"Amanda Loomis could come, " said Miss Vesta, misunderstanding her. 

"Yes, " said Rejoice, with a faint smile; "Amanda can come, and I shalldo very well indeed till you come back with the child. Go at once, Vesta; don't lose a moment. Put on your bonnet and shawl, and Doctorwill drive you over to the Corners. The stage goes by in an hour'stime, and you have none too long to reach it. "

Dr. Brown seemed to wake suddenly from the distressful dream in whichhe had been plunged. "Yes, I will drive you over to the stage, Vesta, "he said. "God help me! it is all I can do. I have an operation toperform at noon. It is a case of life and death, and I have no rightto leave it. The man's whole life is not worth one hour of Melody's, "he added with some bitterness; "but that makes no difference, Isuppose. I have no choice in the matter. Girls!" he cried, "you knowwell enough that if it were my own life, I would throw it down thewell to give the child an hour's pleasure, let alone saving her frommisery, --and perhaps from death!" he added to himself; for only he andthe famous physician who had examined Melody at his instance knew thatunder all the joy and vigor of the child's simple, healthy life laydormant a trouble of the heart, which would make any life ofexcitement or fatigue fatal to her in short space, though she mightlive in quiet many happy years. Yes, one other person knew this, --hisfriend Dr. Anthony, whose remonstrances against the wickedness ofhiding this rare jewel from a world of appreciation and of fame couldonly be silenced by showing him the bitter drop which lay at the heartof the rose. 

Rejoice Dale reassured him by a tender pressure of the hand, and a fewsoothing words. They had known each other ever since their pinaforedays, these three people. He was younger than Miss Rejoice, and he hadbeen deeply in love with her when he was an awkward boy of fifteen, and she a lovely seventeen-year-old girl. They had called him "doctor"at first in sport, when he came home to practise in his nativevillage; but soon he had so fully shown his claim to the grave titlethat "the girls" and every one else had forgotten the fact that he hadonce been "Jack" to the whole village. 

"Doctor, " said the sick woman, "try not to think about it more thanyou can help! There are all the sick people looking to you as next tothe hand of God; your path is clear before you. "

Dr. Brown groaned. He wished his path were not so clear, that he mightin some way make excuse to turn aside from it. "I will give Vesta anote to Dr. Anthony, " he said, brightening a little at the thought. "He will do anything in his power to help us. There are other people, too, who will be kind. Yes, yes; we shall have plenty of help. "

He fidgeted about the room, restless and uneasy, till Miss Vesta camein, in her bonnet and shawl. "I have no choice, " he repeated doggedly, hugging his duty close, as if to dull the pressure of the pain within. "But how can you go alone, Vesta, my poor girl? You are not fit; youare trembling all over. God help us!" cried Dr. Brown, again. 

For a moment the two strong ones stood irresolute, feeling themselveslike little children in the grasp of a fate too big for them tograpple. The sick woman closed her eyes, and waited. God would help, in His good way. She knew no more, and no more was needed. There werea few moments of silence, as if all were waiting for something, theyknew not what, --a sign, perhaps, that they were not forgotten, forsaken, on the sea of this great trouble. 

Suddenly through the open window stole a breath of sound. Faint andfar, it seemed at first only a note of the summer breeze, taking adeeper tone than its usual soft murmur. It deepened still; took form, rhythm; made itself a body of sound, sweet, piercing, thrilling on theear. And at the sound of it, Vesta Dale fell away again into helplessweeping, like a frightened child; for it was the tune of "Rosin theBeau"

"Who shall tell him?" she moaned, covering her face with her hands, and rocking to and fro, --"oh, who shall tell him that the light of ourlife and his is gone out?"

CHAPTER VIII. 

WAITING. 

How did the time pass with the sick woman, waiting in the littlechamber, listening day by day and hour by hour for the steps, thevoices, which did not come? Miss Rejoice was very peaceful, veryquiet, --too quiet, thought Mandy Loomis, the good neighbor who watchedby her, fulfilling her little needs, and longing with a thirsty soulfor a good dish of gossip. If Rejoice would only "open her mind!" itwould be better for her, and such a relief to poor Mandy, unused tosilent people who bore their troubles with a smile. 

"Where do you s'pose she is, Rejoice?" Mrs. Loomis would cry, twentytimes a day. "Where do you s'pose she is? Ef we only knew, 't would beeasier to bear, seems 's though. Don't you think so, Rejoice?"

But Rejoice only shook her head, and said, "She is cared for, Mandy, we must believe. All we have to do is to be quiet, and wait for theLord's time. "

"Dear to goodness! She can wait!" exclaimed Mrs. Loomis to Mrs. Penny, when the latter came in one evening to see if any news had come. "Sheain't done anything but wait, you may say, ever sence time was, Rejoice ain't. But I do find it dretful tryin' now, Mis' Penny, now Itell ye. Settin' here with my hands in my lap, and she so quiet inthere, well, I do want to fly sometimes, seems 's though. Well, I amglad to see you, to be sure. The' ain't a soul ben by this day. Setdown, do. You want to go in 'n' see Rejoice? Jest in a minute. I dothink I shall have a sickness if I don't have some one to open my mindto. Now, Mis' Penny, where do you s'pose, where do you s'pose thatchild is?" Then, without waiting for a reply, she plunged headlonginto the stream of talk. 

"No, we ain't heard a word. Vesta went off a week ago, and Mr. DeArthenay with her. Providential, wasn't it, his happenin' along justin the nick o' time? I do get out of patience with Rejoice sometimes, takin' the Lord quite so much for granted as she doos; for, after all, the child was stole, you can't get over that, and seems's though ifthere'd ben such a good lookout as she thinks, --well, there! I don'twant to be profane; but I will say 'twas a providence, Mr. De Arthenayhappenin' along. Well, they went, and not a word have we heard sencebut just one letter from Vesta, sayin' they hadn't found no trace yet, but they hoped to every day, --and land sakes, we knew that, I shouldhope. Dr. Brown comes in every day to cheer her up, though I dodeclare I need it more than she doos, seems's though. He's as close asan oyster, Dr. Brown is; I can't even get the news out of him, mosttimes. How's that boy of 'Bind Parker's, --him that fell and hurt hisleg so bad? Gettin' well, is he?"

"No, he isn't, " said Mrs. Penny, stepping in quickly on the question, as her first chance of getting in a word. "He's terrible slim; I heardDoctor say so. They're afraid of the kangaroo settin' in in the j'int, and you know that means death, sartin sure. "

Both women nodded, drawing in their breath with an awful relish. 

"'T will be a terrible loss to his mother, " said Mandy Loomis. "Such alikely boy as he was gettin' to be, and 'Bind so little good, one wayand another. "

"Do you think they'll hear news of Melody?" asked Mrs. Penny, changingthe subject abruptly. 

Amanda Loomis plumped her hands down on her knees, and leaned forward;it was good to listen, but, oh, how much better it was to speak!

"I don't, " she said, with gloomy emphasis. "If you ask me what Ireelly think, Mis' Penny, it's that. I don't think we shall ever seteyes on that blessed child again. Rejoice is so sartin sure, sometimesmy hopes get away with me, and I forgit my jedgment for a spell. Butthere! see how it is! Now, mind, what I say is for this room only. "She spread her hands abroad, as if warning the air around to secrecy, and lowered her voice to an awestruck whisper. "I've ben here a weeknow, Mis' Penny. Every night the death-watch has ticked in Mel'dy'sroom the endurin' night. I don't sleep, you know, fit to support aflea. I hear every hour strike right straight along, and I know thingsthat's hid from others, Mis' Penny, though I do say it. Last night asever was I heard a sobbin' and a sighin' goin' round the house, asplain as I hear you this minute. Some might ha' said't was the wind, but there's other things besides wind, Mis' Penny; and I solemnlybelieve that was Mel'dy's sperrit, and the child is dead. It ain't myinterest to say it, " she cried, with a sudden change of tone, puttingher apron to her eyes: "goodness knows it ain't my interest to say it. What that child has been to me nobody knows. When I've had them weaklyspells, the' warn't nobody but Mel'dy could ha' brought me out of 'emalive, well I know. She tended me and sung to me like all the angelsin heaven, and when she'd lay her hand on me--well, there! seems'sthough my narves 'ud quiet right down, and blow away like smoke. I'veben a well woman--that is to say, for one that's always enjoyed poorhealth--sence Dr. Brown sent that blessed child to me. She has a gift, if ever any one had. Dr. Brown had ought to give her half of what hemakes doctorin'; she's more help than all the medicine ever _he_gives. I never saw a doctor so dretful stingy with his stuff. Why, I've ben perishin' sometimes for want o' doctorin', and all he'd giveme was a little pepsin, or tell me to take as much sody as would layon the p'int of a penknife, or some such thing, --not so much as you'dgive to a canary-bird. I do sometimes wish we had a doctor who knewthe use o' medicine, 'stead of everlastin'ly talkin' about the laws o'health, and hulsome food, and all them notions. Why, there's old Dr. Jalap, over to the Corners. He give Beulah Pegrum seven Liver Pills atone dose, and only charged her fifty cents, over 'n' above the cost ofthe pills. Now _that's_ what I call doctorin', --not but what I likeDr. Brown well enough. But Mel'dy--well, there! and now to have hertook off so suddin, and never to know whether she's buriedrespectable, or buried at all! You hear awful stories of city ways, these times. Now, this is for this room only, and don't you ever tella soul! It's as true as I live, they have a furnace where they burnfolks' bodies, for all the world as if they was hick'ry lawgs. Mycousin Salome's nephew that lives in the city saw one once. He thoughtit was connected with the gas-works, but he didn't know for sure. Mis'Penny, if Rejoice Dale was to know that Mel'dy was made into gas--"

Martha Penny clutched the speaker's arm, and laid her hand over hermouth, with a scared look. The door of the bedroom had swung open inthe breeze, and in the stress of feeling Mandy Loomis had raised hervoice higher and higher, till the last words rang through the houselike the wail of a sibyl. But above the wail another sound was nowrising, the voice of Rejoice Dale, --not calm and gentle, as they hadalways heard it, but high-pitched, quivering with intense feeling. 

"I see her!" cried the sick woman. "I see the child! Lord, save her!Lord, save her!"

The two women hurried in, and found her sitting up in bed, her eyeswide, her arm outstretched, pointing--at what? Involuntarily theyturned to follow the pointing finger, and saw the yellow-washed wall, and the wreath of autumn leaves that always hung there. 

"What is it, Rejoice?" cried Mandy, terrified. "What do you see? Is ita spirit? Tell us, for pity's sake!"

But even at that moment a change came. The rigid muscles relaxed, thewhole face softened to its usual peaceful look; the arm droppedgently, and Rejoice Dale sank back upon her pillow and smiled. 

"Thy rod and thy staff!" she said. "Thy rod and thy staff! theycomfort me. " And for the first time since Melody was lost, she fellasleep, and slept like a little child. 

CHAPTER IX. 

BLONDEL. 

Noontide in the great city! The July sun blazes down upon the bricksidewalks, heating them through and through, till they scorch the baretoes of the little street children, who creep about, sheltering theireyes with their hands, and keeping in the shade when it is possible. The apple-women crouch close to the wall, under their green umbrellas;the banana-sellers look yellow and wilted as their own wares. Men passalong, hurrying, because they are Americans, and business must go onwhether it be hot or cold; but they move in a dogged jog-trot, expressive of weariness and disgust, and wipe their brows as they go, muttering anathemas under their breath on the whole summer season. Most of the men are in linen coats, some in no coats at all; all wearstraw hats, and there is a great display of palm-leaf fans, waving inall degrees of energy. Here and there is seen an umbrella, but theseare not frequent, for it seems to the American a strange and womanishthing to carry an umbrella except for rain; it also requiresattention, and takes a man's mind off his business. Each man of allthe hurrying thousands is shut up in himself, carrying his littleworld, which is all the world there is, about with him, seeing theother hurrying mites only "as trees walking, " with no thought or noteof them. Who cares about anybody else when it is so hot? Get throughthe day's work, and away to the wife and children in the cool by thesea-shore, or in the comfortable green suburb, where, if one muststill be hot, one can at least suffer decently, and not "like arunning river be, "--with apologies to the boy Chatterton. 

Among all these hurrying motes in the broad, fierce stream ofsunshine, one figure moves slowly, without haste. Nobody looks atanybody else, or this figure might attract some attention, even in thestreets of the great city. An old man, tall and slender, with snowyhair falling in a single curl over his forehead; with brown eyes whichglance birdlike here and there, seeing everything, taking in everyface, every shadow of a vanishing form that hurries along and awayfrom him; with fiddle-bow in hand, and fiddle held close and tenderlyagainst his shoulder. De Arthenay, looking for his little girl!

Not content with scanning every face as it passes, he looks up at thehouses, searching with eager eye their blank, close-shuttered walls, as if in hope of seeing through the barriers of brick and stone, andsurprising the secrets that may lurk within. Now and then a houseseems to take his fancy, for he stops, and still looking up at thewindows, plays a tune. It is generally the same tune, --a simple, homely old air, which the street-boys can readily take up and whistle, though they do not hear it in the music-halls or on the hand-organs. Alanguid crowd gathers round him when he pauses thus, for street-boysknow a good fiddler when they hear him; and this is a good fiddler. 

When a crowd has collected, the old man turns his attention from thesilent windows (they are generally silent; or if a face looks out, itis not the beloved one which is in his mind night and day, day andnight) and scans the faces around him, with sad, eager eyes. Then, stopping short in his playing, he taps sharply on his fiddle, and asksin a clear voice if any one has seen or heard of a blind child, withbeautiful brown hair, clear blue eyes, and the most wonderful voice inthe world. 

No one has heard of such a child; but one tells him of a blind negrowho can play the trombone, and another knows of a blind woman whotells fortunes "equal to the best mejums;" and so on, and so on. Heshakes his head with a patient look, makes his grand bow, and passeson to the next street, the next wondering crowd, the nextdisappointment. Sometimes he is hailed by some music-hall keeper whohears him play, and knows a good thing when he hears it, and whoengages the old fiddler to play for an evening or two. He goes readilyenough; for there is no knowing where the dark stranger may have takenthe child, and where no clew is, one may follow any track thatpresents itself. So the old man goes, and sits patiently in the hot, noisy place. At first the merry-makers, who are not of a high degreeof refinement, make fun of him, and cut many a joke at the expense ofhis blue coat and brass buttons, his nankeen trousers andold-fashioned stock. But he heeds them not; and once he begins toplay, they forget all about his looks, and only want to dance, dance, and say there never was such music for dancing. When a pleasant-looking girl comes near him, or pauses in the dance, he calls her tohim, and asks her in a low tone the usual question: has she seen orheard of a blind child, with the most beautiful hair, etc. He iscareful whom he asks, however; he would not insult Melody by askingfor her of some of these young women, with bold eyes, with loose hairand disordered looks. So he sits and plays, a quaint, old-worldfigure, among the laughing, dancing, foolish crowd. Old De Arthenay, from the Androscoggin, --what would his ancestor, the gallant Marquiswho came over with Baron Castine to America, what would the whole lineof ancestors, from the crusaders down, say to see their descendant insuch a place as this? He has always held his head high, though he hasearned his bread by fiddling, varied by shoemaking in the winter-time. He has always kept good company, he would tell you, and would rathergo hungry any day than earn a dinner among people who do not regardthe decencies of life. Even in this place, people come to feel thequality of the old man, somehow, and no one speaks rudely to him; andvoices are even lowered as they pass him, sitting grave and erect onhis stool, his magic bow flying, his foot keeping time to the music. All the old tunes he plays, "Money Musk, " and "Portland Fancy, " and"Lady of the Lake. " Now he quavers into the "Chorus Jig;" but no onehere knows enough to dance that, so he comes back to the simpler airsagain. And as he plays, the whole tawdry, glaring scene drops awayfrom the old man's eyes, and instead of vulgar gaslight he sees thesoft glow of the afternoon sun on the country road, and the gracefulelms bending in an arch overhead, as if to watch the child Melody asshe dances. The slender figure swaying hither and thither, with itsgentle, wind-blown motion, the exquisite face alight with happiness, the floating tendrils of hair, the most beautiful hair in the world;then the dear, homely country folks sitting by the roadside, watchingwith breathless interest his darling, their darling, the flower of thewhole country-side; Miss Vesta's tall, stately figure in the doorway;the vine-clad window, behind which Rejoice lies, unseen, yet sharingall the sweet, simple pleasure with heartfelt enjoyment, --all this theold fiddler sees, set plain before him. The "lady" on his arm (for DeArthenay's fiddle is a lady as surely as he is a gentleman), --the ladyfeels it too, perhaps, for she thrills to his touch, as the bow goesleaping over the strings; and more than one wild girl and rough fellowfeels a touch of something that has not been felt mayhap for many aday, and goes home to stuffy garret or squalid cellar the better forthat night's music. And when it is over, De Arthenay makes his statelybow once more, and walks round the room, asking his question in lowtones of such as seem worthy of it; and then home, patient, undaunted, to the quiet lodging where Vesta Dale is sitting up for him, wearyafter her day's search in other quarters of the city, hoping littlefrom his coming, yet unwilling to lie down without a sight of hisface, always cheery when it meets hers, and the sound of his voicesaying, --

"Better luck to-morrow, Miss Vesta! better luck tomorrow! There's Onehas her in charge, and He didn't need us to-day; that's all, my dear. "

God help thee, De Arthenay! God speed and prosper thee, Rosin theBeau!

But is not another name more fitting even than the fantastic one ofhis adoption? Is not this Blondel, faithful, patient, undaunted, wandering by tower and town, singing his song of love and hope andundying loyalty under every window, till it shall one day fall like abreath from heaven on the ear of the prisoner, sitting in darkness andthe shadow of death?

CHAPTER X. 

DARKNESS. 

"And how's our sweet little lady to-day? She's looking as pretty as apicture, so it's a pleasure to look at her. How are you feeling, dearie?"

It was a woman's voice that spoke, soft and wheedling, yet with acertain unpleasant twang in it. She spoke to Melody, who sat still, with folded hands, and head bowed as if in a dream. 

"I am well, thank you, " answered the child; and she was silent again. 

The woman glanced over her shoulder at a man who had followed her intothe room, --a dark man with an eager face and restless, discontentedeyes; the same man who had watched Melody over the wall of the oldburying-ground, and heard her sing. He had never heard her sing since, save for that little snatch of "Robin Ruff, " which she had sung to thechildren the day when he stood and pleaded with Vesta Dale to sell hersoul for her sister's comfort. 

"And here's Mr. Anderson come to see you, according to custom, " saidthe woman; "and I hope you are glad to see him, I'm sure, for he'syour best friend, dearie, and he does love you so; it would be quitesurprising, if you weren't the sweet lamb you are, sitting there likea flower all in the dark. "

She paused, and waited for a reply; but none came. The two exchanged aglance of exasperation, and the woman shook her fist at the child; buther voice was still soft and smooth as she resumed her speech. 

"And you'll sing us a little song now, dearie, won't you? To thinkthat you've been here near a week now, and I haven't heard the soundof that wonderful voice yet, only in speaking. It's sweet as anangel's then, to be sure; but dear me! if you knew what Mr. Andersonhas told me about his hearing you sing that day! Such a particulargentleman as he is, too, anybody would tell you! Why, I've seen girlswith voices as they thought the wonder of the world, and their friendswith them, and Mr. Anderson would no more listen to them than the dirtunder his feet; no, indeed, he wouldn't. And you that he thinks somuch of! why, it makes me feel real bad to see you not take thatcomfort in him as you might. Why, he wants to be a father to you, dearie. He hasn't got any little girl of his own, and he will give youeverything that's nice, that he will, just as soon as you begin to geta little fond of him, and realize all he's doing for you. Why, mostyoung ladies would give their two eyes for your chance, I can tellyou. "

She was growing angry in spite of herself, and the man Anderson pulledher aside. 

"It's no use, " he said. "We shall just have to wait. You know, mydear, " he continued, addressing the child, "you know that you willnever see your aunts again unless you _do_ sing. You sense that, doyou?"

No reply. Melody shivered a little, then drew herself together and wasstill, --the stillest figure that ever breathed and lived. Andersonclenched his hands and fairly trembled with rage and with the effortto conceal it. He must not frighten the child too much. He could notpunish her, hurt her in any way; for any shock might injure theprecious voice which was to make his fortune. He was no fool, thisman. He had some knowledge, more ambition. He had been unsuccessful onthe whole, had been disappointed in several ventures; now he had founda treasure, a veritable gold-mine, and-he could not work it! Couldanything be more exasperating? This child, whose voice could rouse awhole city--a city! could rouse the world to rapture, absolutelyrefused to sing a note! He had tried cajolery, pathos, threats; he hadcalled together a chosen company of critics to hear the futureCatalani, and had been forced to send them home empty, having heard nonote of the marvellous voice! The child would not sing, she would noteven speak, save in the briefest possible fashion, little beyond "yes"and "no. "

What was a poor impresario to do? He longed to grasp her by theshoulders and shake the voice out of her; his hands fairly itched toget hold of the obstinate little piece of humanity, who, in herchildishness, her helplessness, her blindness, thus defied him, andset all his cherished plans at nought. 

And yet he would not have shaken her probably, even had he dared to doso. He was not a violent man, nor a wholly bad one. He could steal achild, and convince himself that it was for the child's good as wellas his own; but he could not hurt a child. He had once had a littlegirl of his own; it was quite true that he had intended to play afather's part to Melody, if she would only have behaved herself. Inthe grand drama of success that he had arranged so carefully, it was amost charming role that he had laid out for himself. Anderson thebenefactor, Anderson the discoverer, the adopted father of theprodigy, the patron of music. Crowds hailing him with rapturousgratitude; the wonder-child kneeling and presenting him with a laurelcrown, which had been thrown to her, but which she rightly felt to behis due, who had given her all, and brought her from darkness intolight! Instead of this, what part was this he was really playing?Anderson the kidnapper; Anderson the villain, the ruffian, the invaderof peaceful homes, the bogy to scare naughty children with. He did notsay all this to himself, perhaps, because he was not, save whencarried away by professional enthusiasm, an imaginative man; but hefelt thoroughly uncomfortable, and, above all, absolutely at sea, notknowing which way to turn. As he stood thus, irresolute, the woman byhis side eying him furtively from time to time, Melody turned her facetoward him and spoke. 

"If you will take me home, " she said, "I will sing to you. I will singall day, if you like. But here I will never sing. It would not bepossible for you to make me do it, so why do you try? You made amistake, that is all. "

"Oh, that's all, is it?" repeated Anderson. 

"Yes, truly, " the child went on. "Perhaps you do not mean to beunkind, --Mrs. Brown says you do not; but then why _are_ you unkind, and why will you not take me home?"

"It is for your own good, child, " repeated Anderson, doggedly. "Youknow that well enough. I have told you how it will all be, a hundredtimes. You were not meant for a little village, and a few dull oldpeople; you are for the world, the great world of wealth and fashionand power. If you were not either a fool or--or--I don't know what, you would see the matter as it really is. Mrs. Brown is right: mostgirls would give their eyes, and their ears too, for such a chance asyou have. You are only a child, and a very foolish child; and youdon't know what is good for you. Some day you will be thankful to mefor making you sing. "

Melody smiled, and her smile said much, for Anderson turned red, andclenched his hands fiercely. 

"You belong to the world, I tell you!" he cried again. "The world hasa right to you. "

"To the world?" the child repeated softly. "Yes, it is true; I dobelong to the world, --to God's world of beauty, to the woods andfields, the flowers and grasses, and to the people who love me. Whenthe birds sing to me I can answer them, and they know that my song isas sweet as their own. The brook tells me its story, and I tell itagain, and every ripple sounds in my voice; and I know that I pleasethe brook, and all who hear me, --little beasts, and flowers that nodon their stems to hear, and trees that bend down to touch me, and tellme by their touch that they are well pleased. And children love tohear me sing, and I can fill their little hearts with joy. I sing tosick people, and they are easier of their pain, and perhaps they maysleep, when they have not been able to sleep for long nights. This ismy life, my work. I am God's child; and do you think I do not know thework my Father has given me to do?" With a sudden movement she steppedforward, and laid her hand lightly on the man's breast. "You are God'schild, too!" she said, in a low voice. "Are you doing His work now?"

There was silence in the room. Anderson was as if spellbound, his eyesfixed on the child, who stood like a youthful prophetess, her headthrown back, her beautiful face full of solemn light, her arm raisedin awful appeal. The woman threw her apron over her head and began tocry. The man moistened his lips twice or thrice, trying to speak, butno words came. At length he made a sign of despair to his accomplice;moved back from that questioning, warning hand, whose light touchseemed to burn through and through him, --moved away, groping for thedoor, his eyes still fixed on the child's face; stole out finally, asa thief steals, and closed the door softly behind him. 

Melody stood still, looking up to heaven. A great peace filled herheart, which had been so torn and tortured these many days past, eversince the dreadful moment when she had been forced away from her home, from her life, and brought into bondage and the shadow of death. Shehad thought till to-day that she should die. Not that she wasdeserted, not that God had forgotten, --oh, no; but that He did notneed her any longer here, that she had not been worthy of the work shehad thought to be hers, and that now she was to be taken elsewhere tosome other task. She was only a child; her life was strong in everylimb; but God could not mean her to live here, in this way, --thatwould not be merciful, and His property was always to have mercy. Sodeath would come, --death as a friend, just as Auntie Joy had alwaysdescribed him; and she would go hence, led by her Father's hand. 

But now, what change was coming over her? The air seemed lighter, clearer, since Anderson had left the room. A new hope entered herheart, coming she knew not whence, filling it with pulses and waves ofjoy. She thought of her home; and it seemed to grow nearer, moredistinct, at every moment. She saw (as blind people see) the face ofRejoice Dale, beaming with joy and peace; she felt the strong clasp ofMiss Vesta's hand. She smelt the lilacs, the white lilacs beneathwhich she loved to sit and sing. She heard--oh, God! what did shehear? What sound was this in her ears? Was it still the dream, thelovely dream of home, or was a real sound thrilling in her ears, beating in her heart, filling the whole world with the voice ofhope, --of hope fulfilled, of life and love?

 "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 to Rosin the Beau. "

Oh, Father of mercy! never doubted, always near in sorrow and in joy!oh, holy angels, who have held my hands and lifted me up, lest I dashmy foot against a stone! A welcome, --oh, on my knees, in humblethanksgiving, in endless love and praise, --a welcome to Rosin theBeau!

 * * * * *

An hour later Mrs. Brown stood before her employer, flushed anddisordered, making her defence. 

"I couldn't have helped it, not if I had died for it, Mr. Anderson. You couldn't have helped it yourself, if you had been there. When sheheard that fiddle, the child dropped on her knees as if she had beenshot, and I thought she was going to faint. But the next minute shewas at the window, and such a cry as she gave! the sound of it is inmy bones yet, and will be till I die. "

She paused, and wiped her fiery face, for she had run bareheadedthrough the blazing streets. 

"Then he came in, --the old man. He was plain dressed, but he came inlike a king to his throne; and the child drifted into his arms like aflake of snow, and there she lay. Mr. Anderson, when he held her thereon his breast, and turned and looked at me, with his eyes like twoblack coals, all power was taken from me, and I couldn't have moved ifit had been to save my own life. He pointed at me with his fiddle-bow, but it might have been a sword for all the difference I knew; anyway, his voice went through and through me like something sharp and bright. 'You cannot move, ' he said; 'you have no power to move hand or foottill I have taken my child away. I bid you be still!' Mr. Anderson, sir, I _had_ no power! I stood still, and they went away. They seemedto melt away together, --he with his arm round her waist, holding herup like; and she with her face turned up to his, and a look likeheaven, if I ever hope to see heaven. The next minute they was gone, and still I hadn't never moved. And now I've come to tell you, sir, "cried Mrs. Brown, smoothing down her ruffled hair in great agitation;"and to tell you something else too, as I would burst if I didn't. I amglad he has got her! If I was to lose my place fifty times over, asyou've always been good pay and a kind gentleman too, still I say it, I'm glad he has got her. She wasn't of your kind, sir, nor of mineneither. And--and I've never been a professor, " cried the woman, withher apron at her eyes, "but I hope I know an angel when I see one, andI mean to be a better woman from this day, so I do. And she asked Godto bless me, Mr. Anderson, she did, as she went away, because I meantto be kind to her; and I did mean it, the blessed creature! And shesaid good-by to you too, sir; and she knew you thought it was for hergood, only you didn't know what God meant. And I'm so glad, I'm soglad!"

She stopped short, more surprised than she had ever been in her life;for Edward Anderson was shaking her hand violently, and telling herthat she was a good woman, a very good woman indeed, and that hethought the better of her, and had been thinking for some time ofraising her salary. 

CHAPTER XI. 

LIGHT. 

I love the morning light, --the freshness, the pearls and diamonds, thefairy linen spread on the grass to bleach (there be those who call itspider-web, but to such I speak not), the silver fog curling up fromriver and valley. I love it so much that I am loath to confess thatsometimes the evening light is even more beautiful. Yet is there asoftness that comes with the close of day, a glorification of commonthings, a drawing of purple shadows over all that is rough orunsightly, which makes the early evening perhaps the most perfect timeof all the perfect hours. 

It was such an hour that now brooded over the little village, when thepeople came out from their houses to watch for Melody's coming. It isa pretty little village at all times, very small and straggling, butlovely with flowers and vines and dear, homely old houses, which havenot found out that they are again in the fashion out of which theywere driven many years ago, but still hold themselves humbly, with arespect for the brick and stucco of which they have heard from time totime. It is always pretty, I say, but this evening it had receivedsome fresh baptism of beauty, as if the Day knew what was coming, andhad pranked herself in her very best for the festival. The sunbeamsslanted down the straggling, grass-grown road, and straightway itbecame an avenue of wonder, with gold-dust under foot, flecked hereand there with emerald. The elms met over head in triumphal arches;the creepers on the low houses hung out wonderful scarfs and bannersof welcome, which swung gold and purple in the joyous light. And asthe people came out of their houses, now that the time was drawingnear, lo! the light was on their faces too; and the plain New Englandmen and women, in their prints and jeans, shone like the figures in aVenetian picture, and were all a-glitter with gold and precious stonesfor once in their lives, though they knew it not. 

But not all of this light came from the setting sun; on every face wasthe glow of a great joy, and every voice was soft with happiness, andthe laughter was all a-tremble with the tears that were so near it. They were talking about the child who was coming back to them, whomthey had mourned as lost. They were telling of her gracious words andways, so different from anything else they had known, --her smiles, andthe way she held her head when she sang; and the way she found thingsout, without ever any one telling her. Wonderful, was it not? Why, onedared not have ugly thoughts in her presence; or if they came, onetried to hide them away, deep down, so that Melody should not see themwith her blind eyes. Do you remember how Joel Pottle took too much oneday (nobody knows to this day where he got it, and his folks alltemperance people), and how he stood out in the road and swore at thefolks coming out of meeting, and how Melody came along and took him bythe hand, and led him away down by the brook, and never left him tillhe was a sober man again? And every one knew Joel had never touched adrop of liquor from that day on. 

Again, could they ever forget how she saved the baby, --Jane Pegrum'sbaby, --that had been forgotten by its frantic mother in the burninghouse? They shuddered as they recalled the scene: the writhing, hissing flames, the charred rafters threatening every moment to fall;and the blind child walking calmly along the one safe beam, unmovedabove the pit of fire which none of them could bear to look on, catching the baby from its cradle ("and it all of a smoulder, justready to burst out in another minute") and bringing it safe to thewoman who lay fainting on the grass below! Vesta had never forgiventhem for that, for letting the child go: she was away at the time, andwhen she came back and found Melody's eyebrows all singed off, it didseem as though the village wouldn't hold her, didn't it? And Doctorwas just as bad. But, there! they couldn't have held her back, onceshe knew the child was there; and Rejoice was purely thankful. Melodyseemed to favor Rejoice, almost as if she might be her own child. Vesta had more of this world in her, sure enough. 

Isn't it about time for them to be coming? Doctor won't waste time onthe road, you may be sure. Dreadful crusty he was this morning, if anyone tried to speak to him. Miss Meechin came along just as he washarnessing up, and asked if he couldn't give her something to ease upher sciatica a little mite, and what do you think he said? "Take it tothe Guinea Coast and drown it!" Not another word could she get out ofhim. Now, that's no way to talk to a patient. But Doctor hasn't beenhimself since Melody was stole; anybody could see that with his mouth. Look at how he's treated that man with the operation, that kept himfrom going to find the child himself! He never said a word to him, they say, and tended him as careful as a woman, every day since he gothurt; but just as soon as he got through with him, he'd go out in theyard, they say, and swear at the pump, till it would turn your bloodcold to hear him. It's gospel truth, for I had it from the nurse, andshe said it chilled her marrow. Yes, a violent man, Doctor always was;and, too, he was dreadful put out at the way the man got hurt, --reaching out of his buggy to slat his neighbor's cow, just because hehad a spite against him. Seemed trifling, some thought, but he's liketo pay for it. Did you hear the sound of wheels?

Look at Alice and Alfred, over there with the baby; bound to have thefirst sight of them, aren't they, standing on the wall like that? Theyare as happy as two birds, ever since they made up that time. Yes, Melody's doing too, that was. She didn't know it; but she doesn't knowthe tenth of what she does. Just the sight of her coming along theroad--hark! surely I heard the click of the doctor's mare. Does seemhard to wait, doesn't it? But Rejoice, --what do you suppose it is forRejoice? only she's used to it, as you may say. 

Yes, Rejoice is used to waiting, surely; what else is her life? In thelittle white cottage now, Mandy Loomis, in a fever of excitement, isrunning from door to window, flapping out flies with her apron, opening the oven door, fidgeting here and there like a distractedcreature; but in the quiet room, where Rejoice lies with folded hands, all is peace, brooding peace and calm and blessedness. The sick womandoes not even turn her head on the pillow; you would think she slept, if she did not now and again raise the soft brown eyes, --the mostpatient eyes in the world, --and turn them toward the window. Yes, Rejoice is used to waiting; yet it is she who first catches thefar-off sound of wheels, the faint click of the brown mare's hoofs. With her bodily ears she hears it, though so still is she one mightthink the poor withered body deserted, and the joyous soul away on theroad, hovering round the returning travellers as they make theirtriumphal entry. 

For all can see them now. First the brown mare's head, with sharp earspricked, coming round the bend; then a gleam of white, a vision ofwaving hair, a light form bending forward. Melody! Melody has comeback to us! They shout and laugh and cry, these quiet people. Alfredand Alice his wife have run forward, and are caressing the brown marewith tears of joy, holding the baby up for Melody to feel and kiss, because it has grown so wonderfully in this week of her absence. Mrs. Penny is weeping down behind the hedge; Mandy Loomis is hurlingherself out of the window as if bent on suicide; Dr. Brown pishes andpshaws, and blows his nose, and says they are a pack of ridiculousnoodles, and he must give them a dose of salts all round to-morrow, assure as his name is John Brown. On the seat behind him sits Melody, with Miss Vesta and the old fiddler on either side, holding a hand ofeach. She has hardly dared yet to loose her hold on these faithfulhands; all the way from the city she has held them, with almostconvulsive pressure. Very high De Arthenay holds his head, be sure! Nomarquis of all the line ever was prouder than he is this day. Hekisses the child's little hand when he hears the people shout, andthen shakes his snowy curl, and looks about him like a king. VestaDale has lost something of her stately carriage. Her face is softerthan people remember it, and one sees for the first time a resemblanceto her sister. And Dr. Brown--oh, he fumes and storms at the people, and calls them a pack of noodles; but for all that, he cannot driveten paces without turning round to make sure that it is alltrue, --that here is Melody on the back seat, come home again, home, never to leave them again. 

But, hush, hush, dear children, running beside the wagon with cries ofjoy and happy laughter! Quiet, all voices of welcome, ringing out fromevery throat, making the little street echo from end to end! Quietall, for Melody is singing! Standing up, held fast by those faithfulhands on either side, the child lifts her face to heaven, lifts herheart to God, lifts up her voice in the evening hymn, --

 "Jubilate, jubilate! Jubilate, amen!"

The people stand with bowed heads, with hands folded as if in prayer. What is prayer, if this be not it? The evening light streams down, warm, airy gold; the clouds press near in pomp of crimson and purple. The sick woman holds her peace, and sees the angels of God ascendingand descending, ministering to her. Put off thy shoes from thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground. 

 "Jubilate, jubilate! Jubilate, amen!"

THE END.