The dishes are
all washed, and there's nothing more to do, is there, Auntie? It is so
long since Rosin has been here; now let us have a good time, a perfect
time!"
De Arthenay took up his fiddle once more, and caressed its shining
curves. "She's in perfect trim," he said tenderly. "She's fit to play
with you to-night, Melody. Come, I am ready; what shall we have?"
Melody sat down on the little green bench which was her own particular
seat. She folded her hands lightly on her lap, and threw her head back
with her own birdlike gesture. One would have said that she was
calling the spirit of song, which might descend on rainbow wings, and
fold her in his arms. The old man drew the bow softly, and the fiddle
gave out a low, brooding note,--a note of invitation.
"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?
She wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown."
Softly the old man played, keeping his eyes fixed on the child, whose
glorious voice floated out on the evening air, filling the whole world
with sweetest melody. Miss Vesta dropped her knitting and folded her
hands, while a peaceful, dreamy look stole into her fine face,--a face
whose only fault was the too eager look which a New England woman must
so often gain, whether she will or no.
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