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 MELODY. 
 
 "Minded of nought but peace, an^ of a child." 
 
 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 CALIF. LIBRARY, LQ ANGELES
 
 Books by Laura E. Richards. 
 
 " Mrs. Richards has made for herself a little niche apart in the 
 literary world, from her delicate treatment of New England village 
 life." Boston Post. 
 
 THE CAPTAIN JANUARY SERIES 
 
 CAPTAIN JANUARY. IGmo, cloth, 50 cents. 
 
 A charming idyl of New England coast life, whose success has 
 been very remarkable. One reads it, is thoroughly charmed by it, 
 tells others, and so its fame has been heralded by its readers, until 
 to-day it is selling by the thousands, constantly enlarging the circle 
 of its delighted admirers. 
 SAHE. Illustrated Holiday Edition. "With thirty half-tone pictures 
 
 from drawings by Erank T. Merrill. 4to, cloth, $1.25. 
 MELODY. The Story of a Child. IGmo, 50 cents. 
 
 " Had there never been a ' Captain January,' ' Melody ' would easily 
 take first place." Boston Times. 
 SAME. Illustrated Holiday Edition. With thirty half-tone pictures 
 
 from drawings by Frank T. Merrill. 4to, cloth, $1.25. 
 MARIE. IGmo, 50 cents. 
 
 " Seldom has Mrs. Richards drawn a more irresistible picture, or 
 framed one with more artistic literary adjustment." Boston Herald. 
 
 " A perfect literary gem." Boston Transcript. 
 Jin OF HELLAS; or, IN DURANCE VILE, and a companion story, 
 
 BETHESDA POOL. IGmo, 50 cents. 
 SOflE SAY, and a companion story, NEIGHBOURS IN CYRUS. 
 
 16mo, 50 cents. 
 
 ROSIN THE BEAU. 16mo, 50 cents. A sequel to " Melody." 
 SNOW-WHITE ; or THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD. IGmo, 50 cents. 
 
 ISLA HERON. A charming prose idyl of quaint New England life. 
 
 Small quarto, cloth, 75 cents. 
 NAUTILUS. A very interesting story, with illustrations; uniquely 
 
 bound, small quarto, cloth, 75 cents. 
 FIVE MINUTE STORIES. A charming collection of short stories 
 
 and clever poems for children. Small quarto, cloth, $1.25. 
 THREE MARGARETS. One of the most clever stories for girls that 
 
 the author has written. IGmo, cloth, handsome cover design, $1.25. 
 
 MARGARET MONTFOR T. The second volume in the series of which 
 
 ' " Three Margarets " was so successful as the initial volume. IGmo, 
 
 cloth, handsome cover design, $1.25. 
 PEGGY. The third volume in the series of which the preceding ones 
 
 have been so successful. IGmo, cloth, handsome cover design, $1.25. 
 RITA. The fourth volume in the series, being an account of Rita, 
 
 the Cuban Margaret, and her friends. IGmo, cloth, handsome cover 
 
 design, f 1.25. 
 LOVE AND ROCKS. A charming story of one of the pleasant islands 
 
 that dot the rugged Maine coast. With etching frontispiece by 
 
 Mercier. Tall IGmo, unique cover design on linen, gilt top, $1.00. 
 FOR TOMMY and Other Stories. Frontispiece by F. T. Merrill. 
 Tall IGmo, cloth, gilt tops, $1.00. 
 
 Dana Estes & Company, Publishers, Boston.
 
 MELODY 
 
 BY 
 
 LAURA E. RICHARDS 
 
 AUTHOR OF " CAPTAIN JANUAKY," ETC. 
 
 SEVENTY -SIXTH THOUSAND 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 DANA ESTES <fe COMPANY 
 1901
 
 Copyright, 1893, 
 BY ESTES & LAUKIAT, 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 0. H. Simonds & Co., Printers 
 Boston, U. S. A.
 
 TO 
 
 THE LOVELY MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 fttg Sister, 
 (ULIA KOMANA ANAGNOS.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 2HAPTEK p AOC 
 
 I. THE CHILD 1 
 
 II. THE DOCTOR 7 
 
 III. ON THE ROAD ... .-,.-. 18 
 
 IV. ROSIN THE BEAU . t 24 
 
 V. IN THE CHURCHYARD 44 
 
 VI. THE SERPENT 52 
 
 VII. LOST 60 
 
 VIII. WAITING 66 
 
 IX. BLONDEL . 71 
 
 X. DARKNESS 76 
 
 XI. LIGHT .... 85
 
 MELODY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 , THE CHILD. 
 
 \X 7ELL, there!" said Miss Vesta. "The child has a 
 * * wonderful gift, that is certain. Just listen to her, 
 Rejoice ! You never heard our canary siug like that!" 
 
 Miss Vesta put back the shutters as she spoke, and let a 
 flood of light into the room where Miss Rejoice lay. The 
 window was open, and Melody's voice came in like a wave 
 of sound, filling the room with sweetness and life and joy. 
 
 " It 's like the foreign birds they tell about ! " said Miss 
 Rejoice, folding her thin hands, and settling herself on the 
 pillow with au air of perfect content, " nightingales, and 
 skylarks, and all the birds in the poetry -books. What is 
 she doing, Vesta ? " 
 
 Miss Rejoice could see part of the yard from her bed. 
 She could see the white lilac-bush, now a mass of snowy 
 plumes, waving in the June breeze ; she could see the road, 
 and knew when any of the neighbors went to town or to 
 meeting ; but the corner from which the wonderful voice 
 came thrilling and soaring was hidden from her. 
 
 Miss Vesta peered out between the muslin curtains. 
 " She 's sitting on the steps," she said, " feeding the hens. It 
 is wonderful, the way the creatures know her 1 That old 
 
 i
 
 I MELODY. 
 
 top-knot hen, that never has a good word for anybody, is 
 sitting in her lap almost. She says she understands their 
 talk, and I really believe she does. 'T is certain none of 
 them cluck, not a sound, while she's singing. 'T is a 
 manner of marvel, to my mind." 
 
 "It is so," assented Miss Rejoice, mildly. "There, 
 sister ! you said you had never heard her sing ' Tara's Harp.' 
 Do listen now ! " 
 
 Both sisters were silent in delight. Miss Vesta stood at 
 the window, leaning against the frame. She was tall, and 
 straight as an arrow, though she was fifty years old. Her 
 snow-white hair was brushed straight up from her broad 
 forehead ; her blue eyes were keen and bright as a sword. 
 She wore a black dress and a white apron ; her hands 
 showed the marks of years of serving, and of hard work of 
 all kinds. No one would have thought that she and Miss 
 Kejoice were sisters, unless he had surprised one of the 
 loving looks that sometimes passed between them when 
 they were alone together. The face that lay on the pillow 
 was white and withered, like a crumpled white rose. The 
 dark eyes had a pleading, wistful look, and were wonder- 
 fully soft withal. Miss Rejoice had white hair too, but 
 it had a warm yellowish tinge, very different from the clear 
 white of Miss Vesta's. It curled, too, in little ringlets round 
 her beautiful old face. In short, Miss Vesta was splendidly 
 handsome, while no one would think of calling Miss Re- 
 joice anything but lovely. The younger sister lay always 
 in bed. It was some thirty years since she met with the 
 accident which changed her from a rosy, laughing gi.rl irto 
 a helpless cripple. A party of pleasure, gay lads and 
 lasses riding together, careless of anything save the delight 
 of the moment j a sudden leao of the horae, frightened at
 
 THE CHILD d 
 
 some obstacle ; a fall, striking on a sharp stone, this was 
 Miss Rejoice's little story. People in the village had for- 
 gotten that there was any story ; even her own contempo- 
 raries almost forgot that Rejoice had ever been other than 
 she was now. But Miss Vesta never forgot. She left her 
 position in the neighboring town, broke off her engagement 
 to the man she loved, and came home to her sister ; and 
 they had never been separated for a day since. Once, when 
 the bitter pain began to abate, and the sufferer could realize 
 that she was still a living creature and not a condemned 
 spirit, suffering^for the sins of some one else (she had 
 thought of all her o\vn, and could not feel that they were 
 bad enough to merit such suffering, if God was the person 
 she supposed), in those first days Miss Rejoice ventured 
 to question her sister about her engagement. She was 
 afraid she did hope the breaking of it had nothing to 
 do with her. " It has to do with myself 1 " said Miss 
 Vesta, briefly, and nothing more was said. The sisters 
 had lived their life together, without a thought save for 
 each other, till Melody came into their world. 
 
 But here is Melody at the door ; she shall introduce her- 
 self. A girl of twelve years old, with a face like a flower. 
 A. broad white forehead, with dark hair curling round it in 
 rings and tendrils as delicate as those of a vine ; a sweet, 
 steadfast mouth, large blue eyes, clear and calm under the 
 long dark lashes, but with a something in them which 
 makes the stranger turn to look at them again. He may 
 look several times before he discovers the reason of their 
 fixed, unchanging calm. The lovely mouth smiles, the 
 exquisite face lights up with gladness or softens into sym- 
 pathy or pity ; but the blue eyes do not flash or soften, for 
 Melody is blind.
 
 4 MELODY. 
 
 She came into the room, walking lightly, witn a firm, as- 
 sured tread, which gave no hint of hesitation or uncer- 
 tainty. 
 
 " See, Aunt Joy," she said brightly, " here is the fir?t 
 rose. You were saying yesterday that it was time for cin- 
 namon-roses; now here is one for you." She stooped to 
 kiss the sweet white face, and laid the glowing blossom 
 oeside it. 
 
 "Thank you, dear," said Miss Rejoice; "I might have 
 known you would find the first blossom, wherever it was. 
 Where was this, now ? On the old bush behind the 
 oarn ? " 
 
 " Not in our yard at all," replied the child, laughing. 
 " The smell came to me a few minutes ago, and I went 
 hunting for it. It was in Mrs. Penny's yard, right down 
 by the fence, close, so you could hardly see it." 
 
 " Well, I never I " 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 does n't 
 suffer much from giving, as a rule, to Aunt Joy or anybody 
 else. Did she give it to you at the first asking, hey ? " 
 
 " Now, Vesta ! " remonstrated Miss Rejoice, gently. 
 
 " Well, I want to know," persisted the elder sister. 
 
 Melody laughed softly. "Not quite the first asking," 
 she said. " She wanted to know if I thought she had no 
 nose of her own. ' I did n't mean that/ said I j * but I 
 thought perhaps you would n't care for it quite as much as 
 Aunt Joy would.' And when she asked why, I said, ' You 
 don't sound as if you would/ Was that rude, Aunt 
 Vesta ? "
 
 THE CHILD. 5 
 
 "Humph!" said Miss Vesta, smiling grimly. "I don't 
 know whether it was exactly polite, but Martha Penny 
 would n't know the difference." 
 
 The child looked distressed, and so did Miss Rejoice. 
 
 " I am sorry," said Melody. " But then Mrs. Penny 
 said something so funny. ' Well, gaffle onto it 1 I s'pose 
 you 're one of them kind as must always have what they 
 want in this world. Gaffle onto your rose, and go 'long ! 
 Guess I might be sick enough before anybody 'ud get roses 
 for me !' So I told her I would bring her a whole bunch of 
 our white ones as soon as they were out, and told her how I 
 always tried to get the first cinnamon-rose for Aunt Joy. 
 She said, ' She ain't your aunt, nor mine either.' But she 
 spoke kinder, and didn't seem cross any more; so I took 
 the rose, and here it is." 
 
 Miss Vesta was angry. A bright spot burned in her 
 cheeks, and she was about to speak hastily; but Miss 
 Rejoice raised a gentle hand, and motioned her to be 
 silent. 
 
 " Martha Penny has a sharp way, Melody," said Miss 
 Rejoice; "but she meant no unkindness, I think. The 
 rose is very sweet," she added ; " there are no other roses so 
 sweet, to my mind. And how are the hens this morning, 
 dearie?" 
 
 The child clapped her hands, and laughed aloud. " Oh, 
 we have had such fun ! " she cried. " Top-knot was very 
 cross at first, and would not let the young speckled hen eat 
 out of the dish with her. So I took one under each arm, 
 and sang and talked to them till they were both in a good 
 humor. That made the Plymouth rooster jealous, and he 
 came and drove them both away, and had to have a petting 
 all by himself. He is such a dear 1 "
 
 fi MELODY 
 
 " You do spoil those hens, Melody," said Miss 
 with an affectionate grumble. " Do you suppose they 'll 
 eat any better for being talked to and sung to as if they 
 were persons ? " 
 
 " Poor dears ! " said the child ; 4< they ought to be happy 
 while they do live, ought n't they, Auntie ? Is it time to 
 make the cake now, Aunt Vesta, or shall I get my knitting, 
 and sing to Auntie Joy a little ? " 
 
 At that moment a clear whistle was heard outside the 
 house " The doctor ! " cried Melody, her sightless face 
 lighting up with a flash of joy. " I must go/' and she ran 
 quickly out to the gate. 
 
 " Now he '11 carry her off," said Miss Vesta, " and we 
 sha'n't see her again till dinner-time. You 'd think she 
 was his child, not ours. But so it is, in this world. " 
 
 "What has crossed you this morning, Sister?" asked 
 Miss Kejoice, mildly. " You seem put about." 
 
 " Oh, the cat got into the tea-kettle," replied the elder 
 sister. "Don't fret your blessed self if I am cross. I can't 
 stand Martha Penny, that 's all, speaking so to that 
 blessed child ! I wish I had her here j she 'd soon find out 
 whether she had a nose or not. Dear knows it's long 
 enough ! It is n't the first time I 've had four parts of a 
 mind to pull it for her." 
 
 " Why, Vesta Dale, how you do talk ! n said Miss 
 Rejoice, and then they both laughed, and Miss Vesta went 
 out to scold the doctor
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE DOCTOR. 
 
 '"PHE doctor sat in his buggy, leaning forward, and talk 
 ing to the child. A florid, jovial-looking man, bright 
 eyed and deep-chested, with a voice like a trumpet, and a 
 general air of being the West Wind in person. He was not 
 alone this time : another doctor sat beside him ; and Miss 
 Vesta smoothed her ruffled front at sight of the stranger 
 
 " Good-morning, Vesta," shouted the doctor, cheerily 
 " You came out to shoot me, because you thought I was 
 coining to carry off Melody, eh ? You need n't say no, for 
 I know your musket-shot expression. Dr. Anthony, let roe 
 present you to Miss Vesta Dale, a woman who has never 
 had the grace to have a day's sickness since I have known 
 her, and that 's forty years at least/* 
 
 " Miss Dale Is a fortunate woman," said Dr. Anthony. 
 smiling " Have you many such constitutions in your 
 practice, Brown ? " 
 
 " I am fool enough to wish T had," growled Dr Brown 
 " That woman, sir, is enough to rum any practice, with her 
 pernicious example of disgusting health. How is Rejoice 
 this morning, Vesta ? Does she want to see me ? " 
 
 Miss Vesta thought not, to-day ; then followed questions 
 and answers, searching on one side, careful and exact on tiw 
 other; and theu
 
 8 MELODY. 
 
 " I should like it if you could spare Melody for half an 
 hour this morning," said the doctor. " I want her to go 
 down to Phoebe Jackson's to see little Ned." 
 
 " Oh, what is the matter with Ned ? " cried Melody, with 
 a quick look of alarm. 
 
 " Tomfoolery is the principal matter with him, my dear," 
 said Dr. Brown, grimly. "His eyes have been troubling 
 him, you know, ever since he had the measles in the 
 winter. I J ve kept one eye on the child, knowing that his 
 mother was a perfect idiot, or rather an imperfect one, 
 which is worse. Yesterday she sent for me in hot haste : 
 Ned was going blind, and would I please come that minute, 
 and save the precious child, and oh, dear me, what should 
 she do, and all the rest of it. I went down mad enough, 
 I can tell you ; found the child's eyes looking like a 
 ploughed field. '"What have you been doing to this child, 
 Phoebe ? ' * We-ell, Doctor, his eyes has been kind o' bad 
 along back, the last week. I did cal'late to send for you 
 before ; but one o* the neighbors was in, and she said to 
 put molasses and tobacco-juice in them.' 'Thunder and 
 turf ! ' says I. * What sa-ay ? ' says Phoebe. ' 'N' then old 
 Mis' Barker come in last night. You know she 's had con- 
 sid'able experi'nce with eyes, her own having been weakly, 
 and all her children's after her. And she said to try 
 vitriol ; but I kind o' thought I 'd ask you first, Doctor, so I 
 waited till morning. And now his eyes look terrible, and 
 he seems dretful 'pindlin' ; oh, dear me, what shall I do if 
 my poor little Neddy goes blind ? ' ' Do, Madam ? ' I said. 
 ' You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you and 
 your tobacco-juice and molasses have made him blind. 
 That's what you will do, and much good may it do 
 you.'"
 
 THE DOCTOR. 6 
 
 * Oh, Doctor," cried Melody, shrinking as if the words 
 had been addressed to her, "how could you say that? 
 Hut you don't think you don't think Ned will really be 
 blind r*J 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. " 1 think he will 
 come out all right ; no thanks to his mother if he does. 
 But it was necessary to frighten the woman, Melody, for 
 fright is the only thing that makes an impression on a fool/ 
 ' Now, I want you to run down there, like a good child ; that 
 is, if your aunts can spare you. Run down and comfort 
 the little fellow, who has been badly scared by the clack 
 of tongues and the smarting of the tobacco-juice. Im- 
 beciles ! cods' heads! scooped-out pumpkins!" exclaimed 
 the doctor, in a sudden frenzy. "A I don't mean that. 
 Comfort him up, child, and sing to him and tell him about 
 Jack-and-the-Beanstalk. You '11 soon bring him round, 1 '11 
 warrant. But stop," he added, as the child, after touching 
 Miss Vesta's hand lightly, and making and receiving I know 
 not what silent communication, turned toward the house, 
 " stop a moment, Melody. My friend Dr. Anthony here is 
 very fond of music, and he would like to hear you sing just 
 one song. Are you in singing trim this morning ? " 
 
 The child laughed. " I can always sing, of course," she 
 said simply. " What song would you like, Doctor ? " 
 
 " Oh, the best," said Dr. Brown. " Give us ' Annie 
 Laurie.' " 
 
 The child sat down on a great stone that stood beside the 
 gate. It was just under the white lilac-bush, and the 
 white clusters bent lovingly down over her, and seemed to 
 murmur with pleasure as the wind swept them lightly to 
 and fro. Miss Vesta said something about her bread, and
 
 10 MELODY. 
 
 gave an uneasy glance toward the house, but she did not go 
 in ; the window was open, and Kejoice could hear ; and after 
 all, bread was not worth so much as "Annie Laurie." 
 Melody folded her hands lightly on her lap, and sang. 
 
 Dr. Brown thought " Annie Laurie " the most beautiful 
 song in the world ; certainly it is one of the best beloved. 
 Ever since it was first written and sung (who knows just 
 when that was ? "Anonymous " is the legend that stands 
 in the song-books beside this familiar title. We do not 
 know the man's name, cannot visit the place where he 
 wrote and sang, and made music for all coming generations 
 of English-speaking people ; can only think of him as a 
 kind friend, a man of heart and genius as surely as if his 
 name stood at the head of unnumbered symphonies and 
 fugues), ever since it was first sung, I say, men and 
 women and children have loved this song. We hear of its 
 being sung by camp-fires, on ships at sea, at gay parties of 
 pleasure. Was it not at the siege of Lucknow that it 
 floated lik^J breath from home through the city hell-beset, 
 and brought cheer and hope and comfort to all who heard 
 it ? The cotter's wife croons it over her sleeping baby ; 
 the lover sings it to his sweetheart ; the child runs, carolling 
 it, through the summer fields ; finally, some world-honored 
 ' prima-donna, some Patti or Nilsson, sings it as the final 
 touch of perfection to a great feast of music, and hearts 
 swell and eyes overflow to find that the nursery song of our 
 childhood is a world-song, immortal in freshness and 
 beauty. But I am apt to think that no lover, no tender 
 mother, no splendid Italian or noble Swede, could sing 
 " Annie Laurie " as Melody sang it. Sitting there in her 
 simple cotton dress, her head thrown slightly back, her 
 bands folded, her eyes fixed in their unchanging calm, she
 
 TEE DOCTOR. \\ 
 
 made a picture that the stranger never forgot. He started 
 as the first notes of her voice stole forth, and hung 
 quivering on the air, 
 
 " Maxwellton braes are bonnie, 
 Where early fa's the dew." 
 
 What wonder was this ? Dr. Anthony had come prepared 
 to hear, he quite knew what, a child's voice, pretty, per- 
 haps, thin and reedy, nasal, of course. His good friend 
 Brown was an excellent physician, but with no knowledge 
 of music; how should he have any, living buried in the 
 country, twenty miles from a railway, forty miles from a 
 concert ? Brown had said so much about the blind child 
 that it would have been discourteous for him, Dr. Anthony, 
 to refuse to see and hear her when he came to pass a night 
 with his old college chum ; but his assent had been rather 
 wearily given : Dr. Anthony detested juvenile prodigies. But 
 what was this ? A voice full and round as the voices of 
 Italy ; clear as a bird's ; swelling ever richer, fuller, rising 
 in tones so pure, so noble, that the heart of the listener 
 ached, as the poet's heart at hearing the nightingale, with 
 almost painful pleasure. Amazement and delight made 
 Dr. Anthony's face a study, which his friend perused with 
 keen enjoyment. He knew, good Dr. Brown, that he him- 
 self was a musical nobody ; he knew pretty well (what does 
 a doctor not know ?) what Anthony was thinking as they 
 drove along. But he knew Melody too ; and he rubbed his 
 hands, and chuckled inwardly at the discomfiture of his 
 knowing friend. 
 
 The song died away ; and the last notes were like those 
 of the skylark when she sinks into her nest at sunset 
 The listeners drew breath, and looked at each other.
 
 12 MELODY. 
 
 There was a brief silence, and then, " Thank you, 
 Melody," said Dr. Brown. " That 's the finest song in the 
 world, I don't care what the next is. Now run along, like 
 my good maid, and sing it to Neddy Jackson, and he will 
 forget all about his eyes, and turn into a great pair of ears." 
 
 The child laughed. " Neddy will want ' The British 
 Grenadier,' " she said. " That is his greatest song." She 
 ran into the house to kiss Miss Kejoice, came out with her 
 sun-bonnet tied under her chin, and lifted her face to kiss 
 Miss Vesta. "I sha'n't be gone long, Auntie," she said 
 brightly. " There '11 be plenty of time to make the cake 
 after dinner." 
 
 Miss Vesta smoothed the dark hair with a motherly 
 touch. " Doctor does n't care anything about our cake,' : 
 she. said; "he isn't coming to tea to-night. I suppose 
 you 'd better stay as long as you 're needed. I should not 
 want the child to fret." 
 
 " Good-by, Doctor," cried the child, joyously, turning her 
 bright face toward the buggy. " Good-by, sir," making a 
 little courtesy to Dr. Anthony, who gravely took off his hat 
 and bowed as if to a duchess. "Good-by again, dear 
 auntie ; " and singing softly to herself, she walked quickly 
 away. 
 
 Dr. Anthony looked after her, silent for a while. " Blind 
 from birth ? " he asked presently. 
 
 " From birth," replied Dr. Brown. " No hope ; I Ve had 
 Strong down to see her. But she 's the happiest creature 
 in the world, I do believe. How does she sing ? " he asked 
 with ill-concealed triumph. "Pretty well for a country 
 child, eh ? " 
 
 " She sings like an angel," said Dr. Anthony, " like au 
 angel from heaven."
 
 THE DOCTOR. 18 
 
 M She has a right to, sir," said Miss Vesta, gravely. " She 
 is a child of God, who has never forgotten her Father." 
 
 Dr. Anthony turned toward the speaker, whom he had 
 almost forgotten in his intense interest in the child. 
 " This lovely child is your own niece, Madam ? " he 
 inquired. " She must be unspeakably dear to you." 
 
 Miss Vesta flushed. She did not often speak as she 
 had just done, being a New England woman ; but "Annie 
 Laurie 5 ' always carried her out of herself, she declared. 
 The answer to the gentleman's question was one she never 
 liked to make. " She is not my niece in blood," she said 
 slowly. " We are single women, my sister and I ; but she 
 is like our own daughter to us." 
 
 "Twelve years this very month, Vesta, isn't it," said 
 Dr. Brown, kindly, " since the little one came to you ? Do 
 you remember what a wild night it was ?" 
 
 Miss Vesta nodded. " I hear the wind now when I think 
 of it," she said. 
 
 " The child is an orphan," the doctor continued, turning 
 to his friend. "Her mother was a young Irish woman, 
 who came here looking for work. She was poor, her 
 husband dead, consumption on her, and so on, and so on. 
 She died at the poorhouse, and left this blind baby. Tell 
 Dr. Anthony how it happened, Vesta." 
 
 Miss Vesta frowned and blushed. She wished Doctor 
 would remember that his friend was a stranger to her. But 
 in a moment she raised her head. " There 's nothing to be 
 ashamed of, after all," she said, a little proudly. " I don't 
 know why I should not tell you, sir. I went up to the 
 poor-farm one evening, to carry a basket of strawberries. 
 We had a great quantity, and I thought some of the people 
 up there might like them, for they had few luxuries, though
 
 14 MELODY. 
 
 1 don't believe they ever went hungry. And when 1 came 
 there, Mrs. Green, who kept the farm then, came out 
 looking all in a maze. ' Did you ever hear of such a thing 
 in your life ? ' she cried out, the minute she set eyes on 
 me. I don't know, I 'm sure,' said I. ' Perhaps I did, and 
 perhaps I did n't. How 's the baby that poor soul left ? ' I 
 said. It was two weeks since the mother died ; and to tell 
 the truth, I went up about as much to see how the child 
 was getting on as to take the strawberries, though I don't 
 know that I realized it till this very minute." She smiled 
 grimly, and went on. " ' That 's just it,' Mrs. Green screams 
 out, right in my face. 'Dr. Brown has just been here, and 
 he says the child is blind, and will be blind all her days, 
 and we 've got to bring her up ; and I 'd like to know if I 
 have n't got enough to do without feedin' blind children ? ' 
 I just looked at her. 'I don't know that a deaf woman 
 would be much better than a blind child,' said I ; < so I '11 
 thank you to speak like a human being, Liza Green, and 
 not scream at me. Are n't you ashamed ? ' I said. ' The 
 child can't help being blind, I suppose. Poor little lamb 1 
 as if it hadn't enough, with no father nor mother in 
 the world.' ' I don't care, J says Liza, crazy as ever ; ' I 
 can't stand it. I 've got all I can stand now, with a feeble- 
 minded boy and two so old they can't feed themselves. 
 That Polly is as crazy as a loon, and the rest is so shif'less 
 it loosens all my j'ints to look at 'em. I won't stand no 
 more, for Dr. Brown nor anybody else.' And she set her 
 hands on her hips and stared at me as if she 'd like to eat 
 me, sun-bonnet and all. 'Let me see the child,' I said. 
 I went in, and there it lay, the prettiest creature you ever 
 saw in your life, with its eyes wide open, just as they are 
 now, and the sweetest look on its little face. Well, there,
 
 THE DOCTOti. 16 
 
 you'd know it came straight from heaven, if you saw 
 it in Well, I don't know exactly what I 'm saying. 
 You must excuse me, sir ! " and Miss Vesta paused in some 
 confusion. " Somebody ought to adopt it,' said L ' It 's 
 a beautiful child; any one might be proud of it when it 
 grew up.' 'I guess when you find anybody that would 
 adopt a blind child, you '11 find the cat settin' on hen's 
 eggs,' said Liza Green. I sat and held the child a little 
 while, trying to think of some one who would be likely 
 to take care of it ; but I could n't think of any one, for 
 as she said, so it was. By and by I kissed the poor little 
 pretty thing, and laid it back in its cradle, and tucked it 
 up well, though it was a warm night. .* You '11 take care 
 of that child, Liza,' I said, ' as long as it stays with you, 
 or I'll know the reason why. There are plenty of people 
 who would like the work here, if you 're tired of it,' I said. 
 She quieted down at that, for she knew that a word from 
 me would set the doctor to thinking, and he was n't going 
 to have that blind child slighted, well I knew. Well, sir, 
 I came home, and told Rejoice." 
 
 "Her sister," put in Dr. Brown, "a crippled saint, 
 been in her bed thirty years. She and Melody keep a 
 small private heaven, and Vesta is the only sinner 
 admitted." 
 
 " Doctor, you 're very profane," said Miss Vesta, reprov- 
 ingly. " I 've never seen my sister Rejoice angry, sir, ex- 
 cept that one time, when I told her. ' Where is the child ? ' 
 she says. ' Why, where do you suppose ? ' said I. ' In its 
 cradle, of course. I tucked it up well before I came away, 
 and she won't dare to mistreat it for one while,' I said. ' Go 
 and get it ! ' says my sister Rejoice. ' How dared you come 
 home without it ? Go and get it this minute, do you hear ? '
 
 16 MELODY. 
 
 I stared as if I had seen a vision. ' Eejoice, what are you 
 thinking of ? ' I asked. ' Bring that child here ? Why, 
 what should we do with it ? I can't take care of it, nor 
 you either.' My sister turned the color of fire. 'No one 
 else shall take care of it,' she says, as if she was Bunker 
 Hill Monument on a pillow. ' Go and get it this minute, 
 Vesta. Don't wait ; the Lord must not be kept waiting. 
 Go, I tell you ! ' She looked so wild I was fairly fright- 
 ened; so I tried to quiet her. I thought her mind was 
 touched, some way. * Well, I '11 go to-morrow,' says I, 
 soothing her; ' I could n't go now, anyhow, Rejoice. Just 
 hear it rain and blow ! It came on just as I stepped inside 
 the door, and it 's a regular storm now. Be quiet,' I said, 
 * and I '11 go up in the morning and see about it.' My sister 
 sat right up in the bed. ' You '11 go now,' she says, ' or I '11 
 go myself. Now, this living minute ! Quick ! ' I went, 
 sir. The fire in her eyes would have scorched me if I had 
 looked at it a minute longer. I thought she was coming out 
 of the bed after me, she, who had not stirred for twenty 
 years. I caught up a shawl, threw another over my 
 shoulders, and ran for the poor-farm. 'T was a perfect 
 tempest, but I never felt it. Something seemed to drive 
 me, as if it was a whip laid across my shoulders. I thought 
 it was my sister's eyes, that had never looked hard at me 
 since she was born ; but maybe it was something else besides. 
 They say there are no miracles in these days, but we don't 
 know everything yet. I ran in at the farm, before them all, 
 dripping, looking like a maniac, I don't doubt. I caught 
 up the child out of the cradle, and wrapped it in the shawl 
 I ; d brought, and ran off again before they 'd got their eyes 
 shut from staring at me as if I was a spirit of evil. How 
 my breath held out, don't ask me ; but I got home, and ran
 
 THE DOCTOR. 1? 
 
 into the chamber, and laid the child down by the side of my 
 sister Rejoice." 
 
 Miss Vesta paused, and the shadow of a great awe crept 
 into her keen blue eyes. "The poor-farm was struck by 
 lightning that night ! " she said. " The cradle where that 
 baby was lying was shattered into kindling-wood, and Liza 
 Green has never been the same woman from that day to 
 this." 
 
 I
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 ON THE ROAD. 
 
 A /TELODY went singing down the road. She walked 
 ^*-*- quickly, with a light swaying motion, graceful as a 
 bird. Her hands were held before her, not, it seemed, 
 from timidity, but rather as a butterfly stretches out its 
 delicate antennae, touching, feeling, trying its way, as it 
 goes from flower to flower. Truly, the child's light fingers 
 were like butterflies, as she walked beside the road, reach- 
 ing up to touch the hanging sprays of its bordering willows, 
 or caressing the tiny flowers that sprang up along the foot- 
 path. She sang, too, as she went, a song the doctor had 
 taught her : 
 
 " Who is Silvia, and what is she, 
 That all our swains commend her ? 
 Holy, fair, and wise is she ; 
 The heavens such grace did lend her, 
 That adored she might f.'e." 
 
 One might have thought that Si Ivia was not far to seek, on 
 looking into the fair face of the jhild. Now she stopped, 
 and stood for a moment with he id thrown back, and nos- 
 trils slightly distended. " Meadc w-sweet ! " she said softly 
 to herself. " Is n't it out early ? the dear. I must find it 
 for Aunt Joy." She stooped, and passed her light, quick 
 tands over the wayside grasses. Every blade and leaf was 
 a familiar friend, and she greeted them as she touched
 
 ON THE ROAD. 19 
 
 them, weaving their names into her song in childish 
 fashion, 
 
 " Buttercup and daisy dear, sorrel for her eating, 
 Mint and rose to please the nose of my pretty sweeting." 
 
 Then she laughed outright. "When I grow up, I will 
 make songs, too," she said, as she stooped to pick the 
 meadow-sweet. "I will make the words, and Rosin shall 
 make the music ; and we will go through the village sing- 
 ing, 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 '11 sing that to Neddy," said Melody, laughing to herself 
 as she went along. " I can sing it to the tune of ' Lightly 
 Row.' Dear little boy ! " she added, after a silence. 
 " Think, if he had been blind, how dreadful it would have 
 been ! Of course it does n't matter when you have never 
 seen at all, because you know how to get on all right ; but 
 to have it, and then lose it oh dear ! but then," and 
 her face brightened again, "he is n't going to be blind, 
 you see, so what 's the use of worrying about it ? 
 
 The worry cow 
 
 Might have lived till now, 
 
 If she 'd only saved her breath. 
 
 She thought the hay 
 
 Would n't last all day, 
 
 So she choked herself to death **
 
 20 MELODY. 
 
 Presently the child stopped again, and listened. The 
 sound of wheels was faintly audible. No one else could 
 have heard it but Melody, whose ears were like those of a 
 fox. " Whose wagon squeaks like that ? " she said, as she 
 listened. " The horse interferes, too. Oh, of course ; it 's 
 Eben Loomis. He '11 pick me up and give me a ride, and 
 then it won't take so long." She walked along, turning 
 back every now and then, as the sound of wheels came 
 nearer and nearer. At last, " Good-morning, Eben ! " she 
 cried, smiling as the wagon drove up ; " will you take me 
 on a piece, please ? " 
 
 "Wai, I might, perhaps," admitted the driver, cautiously, 
 "if I was sure you was all right, Mel'dy. How d'you 
 know 'twas me comin', I'd like to know? I never said a 
 word, nor so much as whistled, since I come in sight of ye." 
 The man, a wiry, yellow-haired Yankee, bent down as he 
 spoke, and taking the child's hand, swung her lightly up 
 to the seat beside him. 
 
 Melody laughed joyously. " I should know your wagon 
 if I heard it in Russia, Eben," she said. " Besides, poor 
 old Jerry knocks his hind feet together so, I heard him 
 clicking along even before I heard the wagon squeak. 
 How 's Mandy, Eben ? " 
 
 "Mandy, she ain't very well," replied the countryman. 
 <; She 's ben havin' them weakly spells right along lately. 
 Seems though she was failin' up sometimes, but I dono." 
 
 " Oh, no, she is n't, Eben," answered Melody, cheerfully. 
 " You said that six years ago, do you know it ? and Mandy 
 is n't a bit worse than she was then." 
 
 "Well, that's so," assented the man, after a thoughtful 
 pause. "That is so, Mel'dy, though how you come to 
 know it is a myst'ry to me. Come to think of it, I doiio 
 but she 's a leetle mite better than she was six years ago.
 
 O.V THE ROAD. 21 
 
 Wai ! now it 's surprisin', ain't it, that you should know 
 that, you child, without the use of your eyes, and I 
 should n't, seein' her every day and all day ? How do you 
 account for that, now, hey ? " He turned on his seat, and, 
 looked keenly at the child, as if half expecting her to meet 
 his gaze. 
 
 " It 's easy enough ! " said Melody, with her quiet smile. 
 "It's just because you see her so much, Eben, that you 
 can't tell. Besides, I can tell from Mandy's voice. Her 
 voice used to go down when she stopped speaking, like 
 this, ' How do you do ? ' [with a falling inflection which 
 was the very essence of melancholy] ; and now her voice 
 goes up cheerfully, at the end, ' How do you do ? ' Don't 
 you see the difference, Eben ? so of course I know she 
 must be a great deal better." 
 
 " I swan ! <" replied Eben Loomis, simply. " ' How do 
 you do ? ' ' How do you do ? ' so that 's the way you find 
 out things, is it, Mel'dy ? Well, you 're a curus child, 
 that 's what 's the matter with you. Where d' you say you 
 was goin' ? " he added, after a pause. 
 
 " I did n't say," said Melody. " But I 'm going to Mrs. 
 Jackson's, to see Neddy." 
 
 " Want to know," said her companion. " Goin' 
 Hevin' some kind o' trouble with his eyes, ain't he ? " He 
 stopped short, with a glance at the child's clear eyes. It 
 was impossible not to expect to find some answering look 
 in them. 
 
 " They thought he was going blind," said Melody ; " but 
 it is all right now. I do wish people would n't tell Mrs. 
 Jackson to keep putting things in his eyes. Why can't 
 they let her do what the doctor tells her, and not keep 
 wanting her to try all kinds of nonsense ? "
 
 22 MJSLODY. 
 
 ''Wai, that's so," assented Eben, "that's so, every 
 time. I was down there a spell back, and I says, 'Phoebe,' 
 I says, < don't you do a thing folks tells you,' says I. ' Dr. 
 Brown knows what he 's about, and don't you do a thing 
 but what he says, unless it 's jest to wet his eyes up with 
 a drop o' tobacco-juice,' says I. ' There 's nothin' like 
 tobacco-juice for weakly eyes, that 's sure ; ' and of course 
 I knew Doctor would ha' said so himself ef he 'd ha' been 
 there. Wai, here we be to Jackson's now," added the good 
 man, pulling up his horse. " Hold on a minute, and I '11 
 help ye down. Wai, there ! " as Melody sprang lightly 
 from the wagon, just touching his hand by way of greeting 
 as she went, " if you ain't the spryest ever I see ! " 
 
 " Good-by, Eben, and thank you ever so much," said the 
 child. " Good-by, Jerry." 
 
 " Come down an' see us, Mel'dy ! " Eben called after her, 
 as she turned toward the house with unfaltering step. 
 " 'T would do Mandy a sight o' good. Come down and 
 stop to supper. You ain't took a meal o' victuals with us 
 I don't know when." 
 
 Melody promised to come soon, and took her way up the 
 grassy path, while the countryman gazed after her with a 
 look of wondering admiration. 
 
 " That child knows more than most folks that hev their 
 sight ! " he soliloquized. " What 's she doin' now ? Oh, 
 stoppin' to pick a posy, for the child, likely. Now they '11 
 all swaller her alive. Yes ; thar they come. Look at the 
 way she takes that child up, now, will ye ? He 's e'en 
 a' most as big as she is ; but you 'd say she was his mother 
 ten times over, from the way she handles him. Look at 
 her set down on the doorstep, tellin' him a story, I '11 bet. 
 I tell ye ! hear that little feller laugh, and he was cryin'
 
 ON THE ROAD, 23 
 
 all last night, Handy" says. I would n't mind hearin* that 
 story myself. Faculty, that gal has; that's the name for 
 it, sir. Git up, Jerry ! this won't buy the child a cake ; " 
 and with many a glance over his shoulder, the good man 
 drove en.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ROSIN THE BEAU. 
 
 HPHE afternoon light was falling soft and sweet, as an 
 -* old man came slowly along the road that led to the 
 village. He was tall and thin, and he stooped as he walked, 
 not with the ordinary round-shouldered slouch, but with a 
 one-sided droop, as if he had a habit of bending over some- 
 thing. His white hair was fancifully arranged, with a curl 
 over the forehead such as little boys used to wear ; his 
 brown eyes were bright and quick as a bird's, and like a 
 bird's, they glanced from side to side, taking in everything. 
 He carried an oblong black box, evidently a violin-case, at 
 which he cast an affectionate look from time to time. As 
 he approached the village, his glances became more and 
 more keenly intelligent. He seemed to be greeting a friend 
 in every tree, in every straggling rose-bush along the road- 
 side ; he nodded his head, and spoke softly from time to 
 time. 
 
 " Getting on now," he said to himself. " Here 's the big 
 rose-bush she was sitting under, the last time I came along. 
 Nobody here now; but she'll be coming directly, up from 
 the ground or down from the sky, or through a hole in the 
 sunset. Do you remember how she caught her little gown 
 on that fence-rail ? " He bent over, and seemed to address 
 his violin. " Sat down and took out her needle and thread, 
 and mended it as neat as any womaii; and then ran her
 
 XOSIN THE BEAU. 25 
 
 butterfly hands over me, and found the hole in my coat, 
 and called me careless boy, and mended that. Yes, yes; 
 Kosin remembers every place where he saw his girl. Old 
 Rosin remembers. There 's the turn ; now it's getting time 
 for to be playing our tune, sending our letter of introduction 
 along the road before us. Hey ? " 
 
 He sat down under a spreading elder-bush, and proceeded 
 to open his violin-case. Drawing out the instrument with 
 as much care as if he were a mother taking her babe from 
 the cradle, he looked it all over with anxious scrutiny, 
 scanning every line and crack, as the mother scans face 
 and bands and tiny curled-up feet. Finding all in order, 
 he wiped it with a silk handkerchief (the special property 
 of the instrument; a cotton one did duty for himself), pol- 
 ished it, and tuned it, and polished again. "Must look 
 well, my beauty," he murmured ; " must look well. Not a 
 speck of dust but she 'd feel it with those little fingers, 
 you know. Ready now ? Well, then, speak up for your 
 master; speak, voice of my heart! 'A. welcome for Rosin 
 the Beau.' Ask for it, Music ! " 
 
 Do people still play "Rosin the Beau," I wonder? I 
 asked a violinist to play it to me the other day, and he had 
 never heard of the tune. He played me something else, 
 which he said was very fine, a fantasia in E flat, I think 
 it was ; but I did not care for it. I wanted to hear " Rosin 
 the Beau," the cradle-song of the fiddle, the sweet, simple } 
 foolish old song, which every "blind crowder" who could 
 handle a fiddle-bow could play in his sleep fifty years ago, 
 and which is now wellnigh forgotten. It is not a beautiful 
 air; it may have no merit at all, musically speaking; but 
 I love it well, and wish I might hear it occasionally in- 
 stead of the odious " Carnival of Venice," which tortures
 
 26 MELODV. 
 
 my ears and wastes my nervous system at every concert 
 where the Queen of Instruments holds her com-t. 
 
 The old man took up his fiddle, and laid his cheek lov- 
 ingly against it. A moment he stood still, as if holding 
 silent commune with the spirit of music, the tricksy Ariel 
 imprisoned in the old wooden case j then he began to play 
 " Rosin the Beau." As he played, he kept his eyes fixed 
 on the bend of the road some rods ahead, as if expecting 
 every moment to see some one appear from the direction 
 of the village, 
 
 ' I 've travelled this country all over, 
 And now to the next I must go; 
 But I know that good quarters await me, * 
 
 And a welcome for Rosin the Beau." 
 
 As he played, with bold but tender touch, the touch of a 
 master, round the corner a figure came flying, a child's 
 figure, with hair all afloat, and arms wide-opened. The 
 old man's face lightened, softened, became transfigured 
 with joy and love ; but he said no word, only played stead- 
 ily on. 
 
 " Rosin ! " cried Melody, stopping close before him, with 
 outstretched arms. " Stop, Rosin ; I want to kiss you, and 
 I am afraid of hurting her. Put her down, do you hear ? " 
 She stamped her foot imperiously, and the old man laid the 
 fiddle down and held out his arms in turn. 
 
 "Melody," he said tenderly, taking the child on his 
 knee, "little Melody, how are you? So you heard old 
 Rosin, did you ? You knew the old man was here, waiting 
 for his little maid to come and meet him, as she always 
 has. Where were you, Melody ? Tell me, now. I did n't 
 seem to hear you till just as you came to the corner; I 
 didn't, now."
 
 JIOSIN THE BEAU. 27 
 
 " I was down by the heater-piece," said the child. " I 
 went to look for wild strawberries, with Aunt Vesta, i 
 heard you, Eosin, the moment you laid your bow across 
 her; but Aunt Vesta said no, she knew it was all nonsense, 
 and we'd better finish our strawberries, anyhow. And 
 then I heard that you wondered why I didn't come, and 
 that you wanted me, and I kissed Auntie, and just flew. 
 You heard how fast I was coining, when you did hear me ; 
 didn't you, Rosin dear?" 
 
 "I heard," said the old man, smoothing her curls back. 
 "I knew you'd come, you see, jewel, soon as you could get 
 here. And how are the good ladies, hey ; and how are you 
 yourself ? though I can tell that by looking at you, sure 
 enough." 
 
 " Do I look well ? " asked the child, with much interest. 
 "Is my hair very nice and curly, Rosin, and do my eyes 
 still look as if they were real eyes ? " She looked up so 
 brightly that any stranger would have been startled into 
 thinking that she could really see. 
 
 " Bright as dollars, they are," assented the old man. 
 " Dollars ? no, that 's no name for it. The stars are nearest 
 it, Melody. And your hair " 
 
 "My hair is like sweet Alice's," said the child, confi- 
 dently, " sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown. I prom- 
 ised Auntie Joy we would sing that for her, the very next 
 time you came, but I never thought you would be here 
 to-day, Rosin. 
 
 ' Where have you been, my long, long love, this seven long years and 
 more ? ' 
 
 That 's a ballad, Rosin j Doctor taught it to me. It is a 
 beauty, and you must make me a tune for it. But where 
 have you been?"
 
 28 MELODY. 
 
 "I've been up and down the earth," the old man replied, 
 "up and down the earth, Melody. Sometimes here at?d 
 sometimes there. I 'd feel a call here, and I 'd feel a call 
 there ; and I seemed to be wanted, generally, just in those 
 very places I'd felt called to. Do you believe in calls. 
 Melody ? " 
 
 " Of course I do," replied the child, promptly. " Only 
 all the people who call you can't get you, Rosin, 'cause 
 you 'd be in fifty pieces if they did." She laughed joy- 
 ously, throwing her head back with the birdlike, raptu- 
 rous motion which seemed the very expression of hei 
 nature. 
 
 The old fiddler watched her with delight. "You shall 
 hear all my stories," he said ; " everything you shall hear, 
 little Melody ; but here we are at the house now, and 1 
 must make my manners to the ladies." 
 
 He paused, and looked critically at his blue coat, which, 
 though threadbare, was scrupulously clean. He flecked 
 some imaginary dust from his trousers, and ran his hand 
 lightly through his hair, bringing the snowy curl which 
 was the pride of his heart a little farther over his fore- 
 head. " Now I '11 do, maybe," he said cheerfully. " And 
 sure enough, there 's Miss Vesta in the doorway, looking 
 like a China rose in full bloom." He advanced, hat in hand, 
 with a peculiar sliding step, which instantly suggested 
 "chassez across to partners." 
 
 " Miss Vesta, I hope your health 's good ? " 
 
 Miss Vesta held out her hand cordially. "Why, Mr. 
 Be Arthenay, 1 is this you ? " she cried. " This is a pleasure ! 
 Melody was sure it was you, and she ran off like a will-o'- 
 the-wisp, when I could not hear a sound. But I 'm very 
 
 1 Pronounced Dee Arthenay
 
 ROSIN THE BEAU. 29 
 
 glad to see you. We were saying only yesterday how 
 long a time it was since you 'd been here. Now you must 
 sit down, and tell us all the news. Stop, though," she 
 added, with a glance at the vine-clad window ; " Rejoice 
 would like to see you, and hear the news too. Wait a 
 moment, Mr. De Arthenay 1 I '11 go in and move her up by 
 the window, so that she can hear you." 
 
 She hastened into the house ; and in a few minutes the 
 blinds were thrown back, and Miss Rejoice's sweet voice 
 was heard, saying, " Good-day, Mr. De Arthenay. It is 
 always a good day that brings you." 
 
 The old man sprang up from his seat in the porch, and 
 made a low bow to the window. " It 's a treat to hear your 
 voice, Miss Rejoice, so it is," he said heartily. "I hope 
 your health 's been pretty good lately ? It seems to me 
 your voice sounds stronger than it did the last time I was 
 here." 
 
 " Oh, I 'm very well," responded the invalid, cheerfully. 
 " Very well, I feel this summer ; don't I, Vesta ? And where 
 have you been, Mr. De Arthenay, all this time ? I 'm sure 
 you have a great deal to tell us. It 's as good as a news- 
 paper when you come along, we always say." 
 
 The old fiddler cleared his throat, and settled himself 
 comfortably in a corner of the porch, with Melody's hand 
 in his. Miss Vesta produced her knitting ; Melody gave a 
 little sigh of perfect content, and nestled up to her friend's 
 side, leaning her head against his shoulder. 
 
 " Begin to tell now, Rosin," she said. " Tell us all that 
 you know." 
 
 "Tell you everything," he repeated thoughtfully. "Not 
 all, little Melody. I 've seen some things that you 
 would n't like to hear about, things that would grieve 

 
 30 MELODY. 
 
 your tender heart more than a little. We will not talk 
 about those ; but I have seen bright things too, sure enough. 
 Why, only day before yesterday I was at a wedding, over 
 in Pegrum ; a pretty wedding it was too. You remember 
 Myra Bassett, Miss Vesta ? " 
 
 " To be sure I do," replied Miss Vesta. " She married 
 John Andrews, her father's second cousin once removed. 
 Don't tell me that Myra has a daughter old enough to be 
 married I Or is it a son ? either way, it is ridiculous." 
 
 "A daughter!" said the old man, " the prettiest girl 
 in Pegrum. Like a ripe chestnut, more than anything. 
 Two lads were in love with her ; there may have been a 
 dozen, but these two I know about. One of them I'll 
 name no names, 't is kinder not found that she wanted 
 to marry a hero (what girl does not ?), so he thought he 
 would try his hand at heroism. There was a picnic this 
 spring, and he hired a boy (or so the boy says it may be 
 wicked gossip) to upset the boat she was in, so that he, the 
 lover/, might save her life. But, lo and behold! he was 
 taken with a cramp in the water, and was almost drowned, 
 and the second lover jumped in, and saved them both. So 
 she married the second (whom she had liked all along), 
 and then the boy told his story." 
 
 " Miserable sneak ! " ejaculated Miss Vesta. " To risk 
 the life of the woman he pretended to love, just to show 
 himself off." 
 
 " Still, I am sorry for him ! " said Miss Rejoice, through 
 the window. (Miss Rejoice was always sorry for wrong- 
 doers, much sorrier than for the righteous who suffered. 
 They would be sure to get good out of it, she said, but the 
 poor sinners generally did n't know how.) " What did he 
 do, poor soul ? "
 
 KOSIN THE BEAU. rfl 
 
 " He went away ! " replied the fiddler. " Pegrum 
 would u't hold him ; and the other lad was a good shot, 
 and went about with a shot-gun. But I was going to tell 
 you about the wedding." 
 
 " Of course ! " cried Melody. " What did the bride 
 wear ? That is the most important part." 
 
 De Arthenay cleared his throat, and looked grave. He 
 always made a point of remembering the dresses at wed- 
 dings, and was proud of the accomplishment, a rare one 
 in his sex. 
 
 "Miss Andrews I beg her pardon, Mrs. Nelson had 
 on a white muslin gown, made quite full, with three ruffles 
 round the skirt. There was lace round the neck, but I 
 cannot tell you what kind, except that it was very soft and 
 fine. She had white roses on the front of her gown, and in 
 her hair, and pink ones in her cheeks ; her eyes were like 
 brown diamonds, and she had little white satin slippers, for 
 all the \forld like Cinderella. They were a present from 
 her Grandmother Anstey, over at Bow Mills. Her other 
 grandmother, Mrs. Bowen, gave her the dress, so her father 
 and mother could lay out all they wanted to on the supper ; 
 and a handsome supper it was. Then after supper they 
 danced. It would have done your heart good, Miss Vesta, 
 to see that little bride dance. Ah ! she is a pretty creature. 
 There was another young woman, too, who played the 
 piano. Kate, they called her, but I don't know what her 
 other name was. Anyway, she had an eye like black 
 lightning stirred up with a laugh, and a voice like the 
 ' Fisherman's Hornpipe.' " 
 
 He took up his fiddle, and softly, delicately, played a few 
 bars of that immortal dance. It rippled like a woman's 
 laugh, and Melody smiled in instant sympathy.
 
 32 MELODY. 
 
 " I wish I had seen her," she cried. " Did she ; /ay well, 
 Rosin ? " 
 
 " She played so that I knew she must be either French 
 or Irish ! n the fiddler replied. " No Yankee ever played 
 dance-music in that fashion : I made bold to say to her, as 
 we were playing together, ' Etes-vous compatriote ? ' 
 
 " ' More power to your elbow,' said she, with a twinkle of 
 her eye, and she struck into ' Saint Patrick's Day in the 
 Morning.' I took it up, and played the ' Marseillaise,' over it 
 and under it, and round it, for an accompaniment, you 
 understand, Melody ; and I can tell you, we made the folks 
 open their eyes. Yes ; she was a fine young lady, and it 
 was a fine wedding altogether. 
 
 " But I am forgetting a message I have for you, ladies. 
 Last week I was passing through New Joppa, and I stopped 
 to call on Miss Lovina Green; I always stop there when I 
 go through that region. Miss Lovina asked me to tell you 
 let me see! what was it?" He paused, to disentangle 
 this particular message from the many he always carried, 
 in his journeyings from one town to another. " Oh, yes, 
 I remember. She wanted you to know that her Uncle 
 Eeuel was dead, and had left her a thousand dollars, so she 
 should be comfortable the rest of her days. She thought 
 you'd be glad to know it." 
 
 " That is good news 1 " exclaimed Miss Vesta, heartily. 
 " Poor Lovina ! she has been so straitened all these years, 
 and saw no prospect of anything better. The best day's 
 work Keuel Green has ever done was to die and leave 
 that money to Lovina." 
 
 " Why, Vesta ! " said Miss Eejoice's soft voice j " how 
 you do talk 1 " 
 
 "Well, it 's true I" Miss Vesta replied. " And you knovp
 
 THE BEAU B3 
 
 it, Rejoice, my dear, as well as 1 do. Any other news in 
 Joppa, Mr. De Arthenay ? I have n't heard from over 
 there for a long time." 
 
 "Why, they've been having some robberies in Joppa," 
 the old man said, " regular burglaries. There 's been a 
 great excitement about it. Several houses have been en- 
 tered and robbed, some of money, others of what little 
 silver there was, though I don't suppose there is enough 
 silver in all New. Joppa to support a good, healthy burglar 
 for more than a few days. The funny part of it is that 
 though 7 have no house, I came very near being robbed 
 myself. 25 
 
 You, Kosin ? " 
 
 You, Mr. De Arthenay ? Do tell us ! " 
 
 Melody passed her hand rapidly over the old man's face, 
 and then settled back with her former air of content, know- 
 ing that all was well. 
 
 "You shall hear my story," the old man said, drawing 
 himself up, arid giving his curl a toss. " It was the night 
 I came away from Joppa. I had been taking tea with 
 William Bradwell's folks, and stayed rather late in the 
 evening, playing for the young folks, singing old songs, 
 and one thing and another. It was ten o'clock when I said 
 goodrnight and stepped out of the house and along the road. 
 'T was a fine night, bright moonlight, and everything shin- 
 ing like silver. I 'd had a pleasant evening, and I felt right 
 cheered up as I passed along, sometimes talking a bit to the 
 Lady, and sometimes she to me j for I 'd left her case at the 
 house, seeing I should pass by again in the morning, when 
 I took my way out of the place. 
 
 " Well, sir, I beg your pardon ; ladies, I should say, 
 as I came along a strip of the road with the moon f uil on it, 
 
 8
 
 34 MELODV. 
 
 but bordered with willow scrub, as I came along, sudden 
 a man stepped out of those bushes, and told me to stand and 
 throw up my hands. Don't be frightened, Melody," for 
 the child had taken his hand with a quick, frightened 
 motion ; " have no fear at all ! I had none. I saw, or felt, 
 perhaps it was, that he had no pistols ; that he was only a 
 poor sneak and bully. So I said, ' Stand yourself ! ' I 
 stepped clear out, so that the light fell full on my face, and 
 I looked him in the eye, and pointed my bow at him. ' My 
 name is De Arthenay,' I said. ' I am of French extraction, 
 but I hail from the Androscoggin. I am known in this 
 country. This is my fiddle-bow; and if you are not gone 
 before I can count three, I '11 shoot you with it. One ! ' I said ; 
 but I did n't need to count further. He turned and ran, as 
 if the as if a regiment was after him ; and as soon as I 
 had done laughing, I went on my way to the tavern." 
 
 All laughed heartily at the old man's story ; but when 
 the laughter subsided, Melody begged him to take " the 
 Lady," and play for her. " I have not heard you play for 
 so long, Rosin, except just when you called me." 
 
 " Yes, Mr. De Arthenay," said Miss Vesta, " do play a 
 little for us, while I get supper. Suppose I bring the 
 table out here, Melody ; how would you like that? " 
 
 " Oh, so much ! " cried the child, clapping her hands. " So 
 very much ! Let me help ! " 
 
 She started up ; and while the fiddler played, old sweet 
 melodies, such as Miss Rejoice loved, there was a pleasant, 
 subdued bustle of coming and going, clinking and rust- 
 ling, as the little table was brought out and set in the 
 vine-wreathed porch, the snowy cloth laid, and the simple 
 feast set forth. There were wild strawberries, fresh and 
 glowing, laid on vine-leaves ; there were biscuits so light it
 
 KOSIN THE BEAU. 35 
 
 seemed as if a puff of wind might blow them away ; there 
 were twisted doughnuts, and coffee brown and as clear as a 
 mountain brook. It was a pleasant little feast ; and the old 
 fiddler glanced with cheerful approval over the table as he 
 sat down. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Vesta," he said, as he handed the biscuits 
 gallantly to his hostess, " there 's no such table as this for 
 me to sit down to, wherever I go, far or near. Look at the 
 biscuit, now, moulded snow, I call them. Take one, 
 Melody, my dear. You '11 never get anything better to eat 
 in this world." 
 
 The child flushed with pleasure. 
 
 "You're praising her too much to herself," said Miss 
 Vesta, with a pleased smile. " Melody made those biscuit, 
 all herself, without any help. She 's getting to be such a 
 good housekeeper, Mr. De Arthenay, you would not believe 
 it." 
 
 " You don 't tell me that she made these biscuit I " 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 '11 have to stop pretty 
 short if you are not going to grow up, Melody. If I have 
 let your dresses down once this spring, I 've let them down 
 three times. You're going to be a tall woman, I should 
 say, and you 've a right good start toward it now." 
 
 A shade stole over the child's bright face, and she 
 was silent, seeming only half to listen while the others 
 chatted, yet never forgetting to serve them, and seeming,
 
 36 MELODY. 
 
 by a touch on the hand of either friend, to kr,ow what was 
 wanted. 
 
 When the meal was over, and the tea-things put away, 
 Melody came out again into the porch, where the fiddler sat 
 smoking his pipe, and leaning against one of the supports, 
 felt among the leaves which hid it. "Here is the mark!" 
 she said. " Am I really taller, Rosin ? Really much 
 taller ? " 
 
 " What troubles the child ? " the old man asked gently. 
 " She does not want to grow ? The bud must open, Melody, 
 my dear ! the uud must open ! " 
 
 " But it 's so unreasonable," cried Melody, as she stood 
 holding by the old man's hand, swaying lightly to and 
 fro, as if the wind moved her with the vines and flowers. 
 " Why can't I stay a little girl ? A little girl is needed 
 here, is n't she ? And there is no need at all of another 
 woman. I can't be like Aunt Vesta or Auntie Joy ; so I 
 think I might stay just Melody." Then shaking her curls 
 back, she cried, " Well, anyhow, I am just Melody now, 
 and nothing more ; and I mean to make the most of it. 
 Come, Rosin, come ! I am ready for music. The dishes 
 are all washed, and there 's nothing more to do, is there, 
 Auntie ? It is so long since Rosin has been here ; now let 
 us have a good time, a perfect time ! " 
 
 De Arthenay took up his fiddle once more, and caressed 
 its shining curves. " She 's in perfect trim," he said ten- 
 derly. "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 ges- 
 ture. One would have said that she was calling the spirit of
 
 ROSIN THE BEAU. 37 
 
 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, rilling the whole world with sweetest melody. Miss 
 Vesta dropped her knitting a.nd folded her hands, while a 
 peaceful, dreamy look stole into her fine face, a face 
 whose only fault was the too eager look which a New 
 England woman must so often gain, whether she will or no. 
 In the quiet chamber, the bedridden woman lay back on 
 her pillows smiling, with a face as the face of an angel. Her 
 thoughts were lifted up on the wings of the music, and borne 
 who shall say where, to what high and holy presence ? 
 Perhaps who can tell ? the eyes of her soul looked in 
 at the gate of heaven itself ; if it were so, be sure they saw 
 nothing within that white portal more pure and clear than 
 their own gaze. 
 
 And still the song flowed on. Presently doors began 
 to open along the village street. People came softly out, 
 came on tiptoe toward the cottage, and with a silent greet- 
 ing to its owner sat down beside the road to listen. Chil- 
 dren came dancing, with feet almost as light as Melody's 
 own, and curled themselves up beside her on the grass. 
 Tired-looking mothers came, with their babies in their 
 arms ; and the weary wrinkles faded from their faces, and 
 they listened in silent content, while the little ones, who 
 perhaps had been fretting and complaining a moment
 
 38 MELODY. 
 
 before, nestled now quietly against the mother-breast, and 
 felt that no one wanted to tease or ill-ti-eat them, but that 
 the world was all full of Mother, who loved them. Beside 
 one of these women a man came and sat him down, as if 
 from habit ; but he did not look at her. His face wore a 
 weary, moody frown, and he stared at the ground sullenly, 
 taking no note of any one. The others looked at one 
 another and nodded, and thought of the things they knew ; 
 the woman cast a sidelong glance at him, half hopeful, half 
 fearful, but made no motion. 
 
 " Oh, don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, 
 
 And the master so kind and so true ; 
 And the little nook by the clear running brook, 
 Where we gathered the flowers as they grew ? " 
 
 The dark-browed man listened, and thought. Her name 
 was Alice, this woman by his side. They had been school- 
 mates together, had gathered flowers, oh, how many times, 
 by brook-side and hill. They had grown up to be lovers, 
 and she was his wife, sitting here now beside him, his 
 wife, with his baby in her arras ; and he had not spoken to 
 her for a week. What began it all ? He hardly knew ; 
 but she had been provoking, and he had been tired, impa- 
 tient ; there had been a great scene, and then this silence, 
 which he swore he would not break. How sad she looked ! 
 he thought, as he stole a glance at the face bending over 
 the child. 
 
 * Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, 
 Sweet Alice, whosa hair was so brown ? " 
 
 Was she singing about them, this child? She had 
 sung at their wedding, a little thing of seven years old >
 
 KOSfN THE BEAU. 89 
 
 and old De Arthengy had played, and wished them happi- 
 ness, and said they were the handsomest couple he had 
 played for that year. Now she looked so tired : how was it 
 that he had never seen how tired she looked ? Perhaps she 
 was only sick or nervous that day when she spoke so. The 
 child stirred in its mother's arms, and she gave a low sigh 
 of weariness, and shifted the weight to the other arm. 
 The young man bent forward and took the baby, and felt 
 how heavy it had grown since last he held it. He had not 
 said anything, he would not say anything just yet; but 
 his wife turned to him with such a smile, such a flash of 
 love and joy, imploring, promising, that his heart leaped, 
 and then beat peacefully, happily, as it had not beaten for 
 many days. All was over ; and Alice leaned against his 
 arm with a little movement of content, and the good neigh- 
 bors looked at one another again, and smiled this time to 
 know that all was well. 
 
 What is the song now ? The blind child turns slightly, 
 so that she faces Miss Vesta Dale, whose favorite song 
 this is, 
 
 "All in the merry month of May, 
 
 When green buds were a-swellin', 
 Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, 
 For love of Barbara Allan." 
 
 Why is Miss Vesta so fond of the grim old ballad? 
 Perhaps she could hardly tell, if she would. She looks 
 very stately as she leans against the wall, close by the 
 room where her sister Rejoice is lying. Does a thought 
 come to her mind of the youth who loved her so, or 
 thought he loved her, 'long and long ago? Does she see 
 his look of dismay, of incredulous anger, when she told
 
 40 MELODY. 
 
 him that her life must be given to her crippled sister, and 
 that if he would share it he must take Rejoice too, to love 
 And to cherish as dearly as he would cherish her ? He 
 could not bear the test; he was a good young fellow 
 enough, but there was nothing of the hero about him, and 
 he thought that crippled folk should be taken care of in 
 hospitals, where they belonged. 
 
 " ' Oh, diuna ye mind, young man,' she said, 
 
 * When the red wine was a-fillin', 
 Ye bade the healths gae round an" round, 
 And slighted Barbara Allan ? ' " 
 
 If the cruel Barbara had not repented, and " laid her down 
 in sorrow," she might well have grown to look like this 
 handsome, white-haired woman, with her keen blue eyes 
 and queenly bearing. 
 
 Miss Vesta had never for an instant regretted the dispo- 
 sition of her life, never even in the shadow of a thought ; 
 but this was the song she used to sing in those old days, 
 and somehow she always felt a thrill (was it of pleasure or 
 pain ? she could not have told you) when the child sang it. 
 
 But there may have been a "call," as Eosin the Beau 
 would have said, for some one else beside Vesta Dale; 
 for a tall, pale girl, who has been leaning against the wall 
 pulling off the gray lichens as she listened, now slips away, 
 and goes home and writes a letter ; and to-morrow morning, 
 when the mail goes to the next village, two people will be 
 happy in God's world instead of being miserable. 
 
 And now? Oh, now it is a merry song; for, after all, 
 Melody is a child, and a happy child ; and though she loves 
 the sad songs dearly, still she generally likes to end up 
 with a " dancy one."
 
 ROSIN THE BEAU. 41 
 
 " ' Come boat me o'er, 
 Come row me o'er, 
 Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 
 I '11 gi'e John Hosa auither bawbee 
 To boat me o'er to Charlie. 
 We '11 o'er the water au" o'er the sea, 
 We '11 o'er the water to Charlie, 
 Come weal, come woe, we '11 gather arid go, 
 And live and die wi' Charlie.' " 
 
 And now Kosiu the Beau proves the good right he has to 
 his name. Trill and quavers and roulades are shaken 
 from his bow as lightly as foam from the prow of a ship* 
 The music leaps rollicking up and down, here and there, 
 till the air is all a-quiver with merriment. The old man 
 draws himself up to his full height, all save that loving 
 bend of the head over the beloved instrument. His long 
 slender foot, in its quaint " Congress " shoe, beats time like 
 a mill-clapper, tap, tap, tap; his snowy curl dances over 
 his forehead, his brown eyes twinkle with pride and pleas- 
 ure. Other feet beside his began to pat the ground ; heads 
 were lifted, eyes looked invitation and response. At length 
 the child Melody, with one superb outburst of song, lifted 
 her hands above her head, and springing out into the road 
 cried, " A dance ! a dance 1 " 
 
 Instantly the quiet road was alive with dancers. Old 
 and young sprang to their feet in joyful response. The 
 fiddle struck into " The Irish Washerwoman," and the peo- 
 ple danced. Children joined hands and jumped up and 
 down, knowing no steps save Nature's leaps of joy ; youths 
 and maidens flew in graceful measures together ; last, but 
 not least, old Simon Parker the postmaster seized Mrs. 
 Martha Penny by both hands, and regardless of her breath- 
 less shrieks whirled her round and round till the poor old
 
 42 MELODY. 
 
 dame had no breath left to scream with. Alone in the 
 midst of the gay throng (as strange a one, surely, as evez 
 disturbed the quiet of a New England country road) danced 
 the blind child, a figure of perfect grace. Who taught 
 Melody to dance? Surely it was the wind, the swaying 
 birch-tree, the slender grasses that nod and wave by the 
 brookside. Light as air she floated in and out among the 
 motley groups, never jostling or touching any one. Her 
 slender arms waved in time to the music; her beautiful 
 hair floated over her shoulders. Her whole face glowed 
 with light and joy, while only her eyes, steadfast and 
 unchanging, struck the one grave note in the symphony of 
 joy and merriment. 
 
 From time to time the old fiddler stole a glance at Miss 
 Vesta Dale, as she sat erect and stately, leaning against the 
 wall of the house. She was beginning to grow uneasy, 
 rfer foot also began to pat the ground. She moved 
 slightly, swayed on her seat ; her fingers beat time, as did 
 the slender, well-shaped foot which peeped from under 
 her scant blue skirt. Suddenly De Arthenay stopped 
 short, and tapped sharply on his fiddle, while the dancers, 
 breathless and exhausted, fell back by the roadside again. 
 Stepping out from the porch, he made a low bow to Miss 
 Vesta. ' " Chorus Jig ! " he cried, and struck up the air of 
 that time-honored dance. Miss Vesta frowned, shook her 
 head resolutely, rose, and standing opposite the old 
 fiddler, began to dance. 
 
 Here was a new marvel, no less strange in its way than 
 Melody's wild grace of movement, or the sudden madness 
 of the village crowd. The stately white-haired woman 
 moved slowly forward; the old man bowed again; she 
 courtesied as became a duchess of Nature's own making.
 
 tiOSIN THE BEAU. 43 
 
 Their bodies erect and motionless, their heads held high, 
 their feet went twinkling through a series of evolutions 
 which the keenest eye could hardly follow. "Pigeon- 
 wings ? " Whole flocks of pigeons took flight from under 
 that scant blue skirt, from those wonderful shrunken 
 trousers of yellow nankeen. They moved forward, back, 
 forward again, as smoothly as a wave glides up the shore. 
 They twinkled round and round each other, now back to 
 back, now face to face. They chassed into corners, and 
 displayed a whirlwind of delicately pointed toes; they 
 retired as if to quarrel ; they floated back to make it up 
 again. All the while not a muscle of their faces moved, 
 not a gleam of fun disturbed the tranquil sternness of their 
 Jook ; for dancing was a serious business thirty years ago, 
 when they were young, and they had no idea of lowering 
 its dignity by any " quips and cranks and wanton wiles," 
 such as young folks nowadays indulge in. Briefly, it was a 
 work of art; and when it was over, and the sweeping 
 courtesy and splendid bow had restored the old-time 
 dancers to their places, a shout of applause went up, and 
 the air rang with such a tumult as had never before, 
 perhaps, disturbed the tranquillity of the country road.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IN THE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 CD'S ACRE ! A New England burying-ground, - 
 who does not know the aspect of the place ? A 
 savage plot of ground, where nothing else would grow save 
 this crop of gray stones, and other gray stones formless and 
 grim, thrusting their rugged faces out here and there 
 through the scanty soil. Other stones, again, enclosing the 
 whole with a grim, protecting arm, a ragged wall, all 
 jagged, formless, rough. The grass is long and yet sparse f * 
 here and there a few flowers cling, hardy geraniums, 
 lychnis, and the like, but they seem strangely out of place. 
 The stones are fallen awry, and lean toward each other as 
 if they exchanged confidences, and speculated on the prob- 
 able spiritual whereabouts of the souls whose former bodies 
 they guard. Most of these stones are gray slate, carved 
 with old-fashioned letters, round and long-tailed ; but there 
 are a few slabs of white marble, and in one corner is a mar- 
 ble lamb, looking singularly like the woolly lambs one buys 1 
 for children, standing stiff and solemn on his four straight 
 legs. This is not the " cemetery," be it understood. That 
 is close by the village, and is the favorite walk and place 
 of Sunday resort for it<* inhabitants. It is trim and well- 
 kept, with gravel paths and flower-beds, and store of urns 
 and images in "white bronze," for the people are proud 
 of their cemetery, as well-regulated New England people
 
 IN THE CHURCHYARD. 45 
 
 should be, and there is a proper feeling of rivalry in the 
 matter of "moniments." 
 
 But Melody cares nothing whatever about the fine ceme- 
 tery. It is in the old " berrin'-groun' " that her mother 
 lies, indeed, she was the last person buried in it ; and it 
 is here that the child loves to linger and dream the sweet, 
 sad, purposeless dreams of childhood. She knows nothing 
 of " Old Mortality," yet she is his childish imitator in this 
 lonely spot. She keeps the weeds in some sort of subjec- 
 tion ; she pulls away the moss and lichens from head and 
 foot stones, not so much with any idea of reverence as 
 that she likes to read the inscriptions, and feel the quaint 
 flourishes and curlicues of the older gravestones. She has 
 a sense of personal acquaintance with all the dwellers on 
 this hillside ; talks to them and sings to them in her happy 
 fashion, as she pulls away the witch-grass and sorrel. See 
 her now, sitting on that low green mound, her white dress 
 gleaming against the dusky gray of the stone on which she 
 leans. Melody is very fond of white. It feels smoother 
 than colors, she always says ; and she would wear it con- 
 stantly if it did not make too much washing. One arm 
 is thrown over the curve of the headstone, while with the 
 other hand she follows the worn letters of the inscription, 
 which surely no other fingers 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.
 
 46 MELODY. 
 
 Melody read the words aloud, smiling as she read. 
 " Susan," she said, " I wonder who wrote your verses. 1 
 wonder if you were pretty, dear, and if you liked to be alive, 
 and were sorry to be dead. But you must be used to it by 
 this time, anyhow. I wonder if you ' shout redeeming love,' 
 like your cousin (I suppose she is your cousin) Sophia Dyer, 
 over in the corner there. I never liked Sophia, Susan dear. 
 I seem to think she shouted here too, and snubbed you, 
 because you were gentle and shy. See how her stone perks 
 up, making every inch it can of itself, while yours tries to 
 sink away and hide itself in the good green 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 old gentleman 
 now, because he has so many dandelions ; and I really must 
 pull them up. You know I am never sure that he is n'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, 
 then passed on to another which was half buried in the earth, 
 the last letters of the inscription being barely discernible. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Bascom ? " said this singular child, 
 laying her hand respectfully on the venerable headstone. 
 "Are your dandelions very troublesome this morning, 
 dear sir ? " 
 
 Her light fingers hovered over the mound like butter- 
 flies, and she began pulling up the dandelion roots, and 
 smoothing down the grass over the bare places. Then she 
 fell to work on the inscription, which was an elaborate 
 one, surmounted by two cherubs' heads, one resting on 
 an hour-glass, the other on a pair of cross-bones. Along 
 every line she passed her delicate fingers, not because she 
 did not know every line, but that she might trace any 
 new growth of moss or lichen.
 
 IN THE CHURCHYARD. 47 
 
 " Farewell this flesh, these ears, these eyes, 
 
 Those snares and fetters of the mind. 
 My God, nor let this fraim arise 
 Till every dust be well refined." 
 
 " You were very particular, Mr. Bascom, were n't you ? ' 
 inquired Melody. " You were a very neat old gentleman, 
 with white hair always brushed just so, and a high collar. 
 You did n 't like dust, unless it was well refined. I 
 should n 't wonder if you washed your walking-stick every 
 time you came home, like Mr. Cuter, over at the Corners. 
 Here 's something growing in the tail of your last y. 
 Never mind, Mr. Bascom, I '11 get it out with a pin. There, 
 now you are quite respectable, and you look very nice 
 indeed. Good-by, and do try not to fret more than you can 
 help about the dandelions. They will grow, no matter how 
 often I come." 
 
 Melody, in common with most blind persons, always 
 spoke of seeing, of looking at things, precisely as if she had 
 the full use of her eyes. Indeed, I question whether those 
 wonderful fingers of hers were not as good as many pairs of 
 eyes we see. How many people go half-blind through the 
 world, just for want of the habit of looking at things ! 
 How many plod onward, with eyes fixed on the ground, 
 when they might be raised to the skies, seeing the glory 
 of the Lord, which He has spread abroad over hill and 
 meadow, for all eyes to behold ! How many walk with 
 introverted gaze, seeing only themselves, while their 
 neighbor walks beside them, unseen, and needing their 
 ministration ! 
 
 The blind child touched life with her hand, and knew it. 
 Every leaf was her acquaintance, every flower her friend 
 and gossip. She knew every tree of the forest by its bark ;
 
 48 MELODY. 
 
 knew when it blossomed, and how. More than this, some 
 subtle sense for which we have no name gave her the power 
 of reading with a touch the mood and humor of those she 
 was with ; and when her hand rested in that of a friend, she 
 knew whether the friend were glad or gay, before hearing 
 the sound of his voice. 
 
 Another power she had, that of attracting to her " all 
 creatures living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly 
 or run." Not a cat or dog in the village but would leave 
 his own master or mistress at a single call from Melody. 
 She could imitate every bird-call with her wonderful voice ; 
 and one day she had come home and told Miss Rejoice 
 quietly that she had been making a concert with a wood- 
 thrush, and that the red squirrels had sat on the branches to 
 listen. Miss Vesta said, " Nonsense, child ! you fell asleep, 
 and had a pretty dream." But Miss Rejoice believed every 
 word, and Melody knew she did by the touch of her thin, 
 kind old hand. 
 
 It might well have been true ; for now, as the child sat 
 down beside a small white stone, which evidently marked 
 a child's grave, she gave a low call, and in a moment a gray 
 squirrel came running from the stone wall (he had been sit- 
 ting there, watching her with his bright black eyes, looking 
 so like a bit of the wall itself that the sharpest eyes would 
 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 I should see you to-day, brother. The last 
 time I came you were off hunting 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
 
 IN THE CHURCHYARD. 49 
 
 the ground, under the tree in which the squirrel lived. The 
 inscription on his tombstone was a perpetual amusement 
 to Melody, and she could not help feeling as if the squirrel 
 must know that it was funny too, though they 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 
 Antfwrite 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 well enough, though she never felt intimate with 
 him, as she did with Susan Dyer and the dear child Love 
 Good, who slept beneath this low white stone. This was 
 Melody's favorite grave. It was such a dear quaint little 
 name, Love Good. " Good " had been a common name 
 in the village seventy years ago, when this little Love lived 
 and died ; many graves bore the name, though no living 
 person now claimed it. 
 
 LOVE GOOD, 
 
 FOCR YEARS OLD. 
 
 Our white rose withered in the bud. 
 
 This was all ; and somehow Melody felt that she knew and 
 
 cared for these parents much more than for those who put 
 
 their sorrow into rhyme, and mourned in despairing doggerel. 
 
 Melody laid her soft warm cheek against the little white 
 
 4
 
 50 MELODY. 
 
 stone, and murmured loving words to it. The squirrel sat 
 still in her lap, content to nestle urder her hand, and bask 
 in the light and warmth of the summer day : the sunlight 
 streamed with tempered glow through the branches of an old 
 cedar that grew beside the little grave ; peace and silence 
 brooded like a dove over the holy place. 
 
 A flutter of wings, a rustle of leaves, was it a fairy 
 alighting on the old cedar-tree ? No, only an oriole ; 
 though some have said that this bird is a fairy prince in 
 disguise, and that if he can win the love of a pure maiden 
 the spell will be loosed, and he will regain his own form. 
 This cannot be true, however; for Melody knows Golden 
 Robin well, and loves him well, and he loves her in his 
 own way, yet has never changed a feather at sight of her. 
 He will sing for her, though; and sing he does, shaking 
 and trilling and quivering, pouring his little 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, 
 only smiles, and sings to him in return. They are singing 
 together now, the child and the bird. It is a very wonder- 
 ful thing, if there were any one by to hear. The gray 
 squirrel crouches motionless in the child's lap, with half- 
 shut eyes; the quiet dead sleep on unmoved: who else 
 should be near to listen to such music as this ? 
 
 Nay, but who is this, leaning over the old stone-wall, 
 listening with keenest interest, this man with the dark, 
 eager face and bold black eyes ? His eyes are fixed on the 
 child ; his face is aglow with wonder and delight, but with 
 something else too, some passion which strikes a jarring 
 note through the harmony of the summer idyl. What is 
 this man doing here ? Why does he eye the blind child so 
 strangely, with looks of power, almost of possession ?
 
 IN THE CUURCHYARD 51 
 
 Cease, cease youi song, Melody I Fly, bird and tiny 
 beast, to your shelter in the dark tree-tops; and fly you 
 also, gentlest child, to the home where is love and protec- 
 tion and tender care ! For the charm is broken, and youi 
 paradise is invaded.
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 THE SERPENT. 
 
 " TDIJT I'm sure you will listen to reason, ma'am.** 
 
 *-^ The stranger spoke in a low, persuasive tone ; his 
 eyes glanced rapidly hither and thither as he spoke, taking 
 the bearings of house and garden, noting the- turn of the 
 road, the distance of the neighboring houses. One would 
 have said he was a surveyor, _nly he had no instruments 
 with him. 
 
 " I am sure you will listen to reason, a fine, intelligent 
 lady like yourself. Think of it : there is a fortune in this 
 child's voice. There has n't been such a voice there 's 
 never been such a voice in this country, I '11 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 I 
 have naver heard such a natural voice as this child has. She 
 has a great career before her, I tell you. Money, ma'am ! 
 there 's thousands in that voice ! It sings bank-notes and 
 gold-pieces, every note of it. You '11 be a rich woman, 
 and she will be a great singer, one of the very greatest. 
 Her being blind makes it all the better. I wouldn't have 
 her like other people, not for anything. The blind priina- 
 donna, my stars ! would n't it draw ? I see the posters 
 now. ' Nature's greatest marvel, the blind singer I Splen- 
 did talent enveloped in darkness.' She will be the success 
 of the day, ma'am. Lord, and to think of my chancing on
 
 THE SERPENT. 53 
 
 her here, of all the little out-of-the-way places in the world! 
 Why, three hours ago I was cursing my luck, when my 
 horse lost a shoe and went lame, just outside your pleasant 
 little town here. And now, ma'am, now I count this the 
 most fortunate day of my life ! Is the little lady in the 
 house, ma'am ? I 'd like to have a little talk with her ; 
 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. " The child is away, and you should not see her if 
 she were here. She is not meant for the sort of thing you 
 talk about. She she is the same as our own child, my 
 sister's and mine. We mean to keep her by us as long as 
 we live. I thank you," she added, with stately courtesy. 
 " I don't doubt that many might be glad of such a chance, 
 but we are not that kind, my sister and I." 
 
 The man's face fell ; but the next moment he looked in- 
 credulous. " You don't mean what you say, ma'am ! " he 
 cried ; " you can't mean it ! To keep a voice like that shut 
 up in a God-forsaken little hole like this, oh, you don't 
 know what you're talking about, really you don't! And 
 think of the advantage to the child herself ! " He saw the 
 woman's face change at this, saw that he had made a point, 
 and hastened to pursue it. " What can the child have, if 
 she spends her life here? No education, no pleasure, 
 nothing. Nice little place, no doubt, for those that are 
 used to it, but Lord ! a child that has the whole world 
 before her, to pick and choose ! She must go to Europe, 
 ma'am ! She will sing before crowned heads ; go to Russia, 
 and be decorated by the Czar. She '11 have horses and car- 
 riages, jewels, dresses finer than any queen 1 Patti spends
 
 64 MELODY. 
 
 three fortunes a year on her 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, perhap 
 her and maybe others ? " 
 
 Miss Vesta winced ; and he saw it. Oh, Rejoice ! it was 
 a joy to save and spare, to deny herself any little luxury, 
 that the beloved sister might have everything she fancied. 
 But did she have everything ? Was it, could it be possible 
 that this should be done for her sister's sake ? 
 
 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 you are 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 '11 bo 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 the white-curtained bed through the 
 vine-clad window, and his ear had caught 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 
 he able to have every luxury for your sister, wines, fruits, 
 travelling, the best medical aid the country affords. You 
 are the a the steward, I may say, ma'am," with 
 subtle intuition, the man assumed a tone of moral loftiness, 
 as if calling Miss Vesta to account for all delinquencies, 
 past and future, " the steward, or even the stewardess, of 
 this great treasure. It means everything for you and her, 
 and for your invalid sister as well. Think of it, think of 
 it well ! I am so confident of your answer that I can well 
 afford to wait a little. Take a few minutes, ma'am, and 
 think it over."
 
 THE SERPENT 55 
 
 fie leaned against the house in an easy attitude, with his 
 hands in his pockets, and his mouth pursed up for a whistle. 
 He did not feel as confident as he looked, perhaps, but 
 Miss Vesta did not know that. She also leaned against 
 the house, her head resting among the vines that screened 
 Miss llejoice's window, and thought intensely. What was 
 right ? What should she do ? Half an hour ago life lay 
 so clear and plain before her; the line of happy duties, 
 simple pleasures, was so straight, leading from the cottage 
 door to that quiet spot in the old burying-ground where 
 she and Rejoice would one day rest side by side. They 
 had taught Melody what they could. She had books in 
 v ;tisi-d print, sent regularly from the institution where she 
 had learned to read and write. She was happy ; no child 
 could ever have been happier, Miss Vesta thought, if she 
 had had three pairs of eyes. She was the heart of the 
 village, its pride, its wonder. They had looked forward 
 L ,o a life of simple usefulness and kindliness for her, tend- 
 '.ng the sick with that marvellous skill which seemed a 
 special gift from Heaven; cheering, comforting, delighting 
 old and young, by the magic of her voice and the gentle 
 spell of her looks and ways. A quiet life, a simple, hum- 
 drum life, it might be: they had never thought of that. 
 But now, what picture was this that the stranger had con- 
 jured up? 
 
 As in a glass, Miss Vesta seemed to see the whole thing. 
 Melody a woman, a great singer, courted, caressed, living 
 like a queen, with everything rich and beautiful about her ; 
 jewels in her shining hair, splendid dresses, furs and laces, 
 such as even elderly country women love to dream about 
 sometimes. She saw this ; and she saw something else 
 besides. The walls of the little room within seemed to
 
 66 MELODY. 
 
 part, to extend ; it was no longer a tiny whitewashed closet, 
 but stretched wide and long, rose lofty and airy. There 
 were couches, wheeled chairs, great sunny windows, through 
 which one looked out over lovely gardens ; there were pic- 
 tures, the most beautiful in the world, for those dear eyes 
 to rest on ; banks of flowers, costly ornaments, everything 
 that luxury could devise or heart desire. And on one of 
 these splendid couches (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 them lay her sister 
 Rejoice, in a lace wrapper, such as Miss Vesta had read 
 about once in a fashion magazine ; all lace, creamy and 
 soft, with delicate 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 smile with her sister's eyes, 
 and speak with her sister's voice ; but it had a strange, 
 shadowy look all the time, and whenever she forced the 
 likeness of Rejoice into her mind, somehow it came with 
 the old surroundings, the little white bed, the yellow-washed 
 walls, the old green flag-bottomed chair on which the medi- 
 cine-cups always stood. But all the other things might 
 be hers, just by Melody's singing. By Melody's singing ! 
 Miss Vesta stood very still, her faoe quiet and stern, as it 
 always was in thought, no sign of the struggle going on 
 within. The stranger was very still too, biding his time, 
 stealing an occasional glance at her face, feeling tolerably 
 sure of success, yet wishing she had not quite such a set 
 look, about the mouth. 
 
 All by Melody's singing ! No effort, no exertion for the 
 child, only the thing she loved best in the world, the 
 thing she did every day and all day. And all for Rejoice, 
 for Rejoice, whom Melody loved so j for whom the child
 
 THE SERPENT. 57 
 
 would count any toil, any privation, merely an added pleas- 
 ure, even as Vesta herself would. Miss Vesta held her 
 breath, and prayed. Would not God answer for her ? She 
 was only a woman, and very weak, though she had never 
 guessed it till now. God knew what the right thing was : 
 would He not speak for her ? 
 
 She looked up, and saw Melody coming down the road, 
 leading a child in each hand. She was smiling, and the 
 children were laughing, though there were traces of tears 
 on their cheeks ; for they had been quarrelling when Melody 
 found them in the fields and brought them away. It was a 
 pretty picture ; the stranger's eyes .brightened as he gazed 
 at it. But for the first time in her life Miss Vesta was not 
 glad to see Melody. The child began to sing, and the 
 woman listened for the words, with a vague trouble darken- 
 ing over her perturbed spirit, as a thunder-cloud comes 
 blackening a gray sky, filling it with angry mutterings, 
 with quick flashes. What if the child should sing the 
 wrong words, she thought ! What were the wrong words, 
 and how should 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 had heard all her life, and had never 
 thought much about, save that it was a good song, one of 
 the kind .Rejoice liked. 
 
 u There 's a place that is better than this, Robin Ruff, 
 And I hope in my heart you *11 go there ; 
 Where the poor man 's as great, 
 Though he hath no estate, 
 
 Ay, as though he 'd a thousand a year, Robin Raff, 
 As though he *d a thousand a year i "
 
 58 MELODY. 
 
 " So you see," said Melody to the children, as they paced 
 along, "it doesn't make any real difference whether we 
 have things or don't have them. It 's inside that one has 
 to be happy; one can't be happy from the outside, ever. 1 
 should think it would be harder if one had lots of things 
 that one must think about, and take care of, and perhaps 
 worry over. I often am so glad I have n't man y things." 
 
 They passed on, going down into the little meadow where 
 the sweet rushes grew, for Melody knew that no child 
 could stay cross when it had sweet rushes to play with ; 
 and Miss Vesta turned to the stranger with a quick, fierce 
 movement. " Go away ! " she cried. " You have your an- 
 swer. Not for fifty thousand fortunes should you have the 
 child ! Go, and never come here again 1 " 
 
 It was two or three days after this that Dr. Brown was 
 driving rapidly home toward the village. He had had a 
 tiresome day, and he meant to have a cup of Vesta Dale's 
 good tea and a song from Melody to smooth down his 
 ruffled plumage, and to put him into good-humor again. 
 His patients had been very trying, especially the last one 
 he had visited, an old lady who sent for him from ten 
 miles' distance, and then told him she had taken seventy- 
 five bottles of Vegetine without benefit, and wanted to know 
 what she should do next. " I really do not know, Madam," 
 the doctor replied, " unless you should pound up the 
 seventy-five bottles with their labels, and take those." 
 Whereupon he got into his buggy and drove off withoxit 
 another word. 
 
 But the Dale girls and Melody bless them all for a set 
 of angels! would soon put him to rights again, thought 
 the doctor, and he would send old Mrs. Prabbles some pills
 
 THE SERPENT. 59 
 
 in the morning. There was nothing whatever the matter 
 with the old harridan. Here was the turn; now in a 
 moment he would see Vesta sitting in the doorway at her 
 knitting, or looking out of Rejoice's window; and she 
 would call the child whom his heart loved, and then for a 
 happy, peaceful evening, and all vexations forgotten I 
 
 But what was this ? Instead of the trim, staid figure he 
 looked to see, who was this frantic woman who came run- 
 ning toward him from the little house, with white hair 
 flying on the wind, with wild looks ? Her dress was dis- 
 ordered ; her eyes stared in anguish ; her lips stammered, 
 making confused sounds, which at first had no meaning to 
 the startled hearer. But he heard oh, he heard and un- 
 derstood, when the distracted woman grasped his arm, and 
 cried, 
 
 tl Melody is stolen ! stolen ! and Rejoice is dead I "
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 LOST. 
 
 IV yf ISS REJOICE was not dead ; though the doctor had 
 *** a m<^nent of dreadful fright when he saw her lying 
 all crumpled up on the floor, her eyes closed, her face like 
 wrinkled wax. Between them, the doctor and Miss Vesta 
 got her back into bed, and rubbed her hands, and put stim- 
 ulants between her closed lips. At last her breath began to 
 flutter, and then came back steadily. She opened her eyes ; 
 at first they were soft and mild 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 tell us how it happened. Why, 
 we found you on the floor, my child," Miss Rejoice was 
 older than the doctor, but it seemed natural to call her by 
 any term of endearment, " how upon earth did you get 
 there ? " 
 
 Slowly, with many pauses for breath and composure, 
 Miss Rejoice told her story. It was short enough. Melody 
 had been sitting with her, reading aloud from the great 
 book which now lay face downward on the floor by the 
 window. Milton's " Paradise Lost " it was, and Rejoice 
 Dale could never bear to hear the book named in her life
 
 LOST. 61 
 
 after this time. A carriage drove up and stopped at the 
 door, and Melody went out to see who had come. As she 
 went, she said, " It is a strange wagon ; I have never heard 
 it before." They both supposed it some stranger who had 
 stopped to ask for a glass of water, as people often did, 
 driving through the village on their way to the mountains. 
 The sick woman heard a man speaking, in smooth, soft 
 tones ; she caught the words : " A little drive fine after- 
 noon ; " and Melody's clear voice replying, " Xo, thank you, 
 sir ; you are very kind, but my aunt and I are alone, and 1 
 could 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 beloved voice, and then a scream. Oh, such 
 a scream ! Rejoice Dale shrank down in her bed, and cried 
 out herself in agony at the memory of it. She had called, 
 she had shrieked aloud, the helpless creature, and her only 
 answer was another cry of anguish : " Help ! help ! Auntie ! 
 Doctor ! Kosin ! Oh, Rosin, Rosin, help ! " Then the cry 
 was muffled, stifled, sank away into dreadful silence ; the 
 wagon drove off, and all was over. Rejoice Dale found 
 herself on the floor, dragging herself along on her elbows. 
 Paralyzed from the waist down, the body was a weary 
 weight to drag, but she clutched at a chair, a table ; gained 
 a little way at each movement ; thought she was nearly at 
 the door, when sense and strength failed, and she knew 
 nothing more till she saw her sister and the doctor bending 
 over her. 
 
 Then Miss Vesta, very pale, with lips that trembled, and 
 voice that would not obey her will, but broke and quavered, 
 and failed at times, like a strange instrument one has not 
 learned how to master, Miss Vesta told her story, of the 
 dark stranger who had come three days before and taken
 
 62 MELODY. 
 
 her up to a pinnacle, and showed- her the kingdoms of the 
 earth. 
 
 "I did not tell you, Kejoice," she cried, holding her 
 sister's hand, and gazing into her face in an agony of self- 
 reproach ; " I did not tell you, because I was really tempted, 
 not for myself, I do believe ; I am permitted to believe, 
 and it is the one comfort I have, but for you, Kejoice, 
 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 would rather die ten times over than have 
 luxuries bought with the child's happy, innocent life, 
 when I came to myself, I was ashamed, and did not tell 
 you, for I did not want you to think badly of me. If I 
 had told 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 would have showed me the danger. 
 Doctor, we are two weak women, she in body, I in mind 
 and heart. Tell us what we shall do, or I think we must 
 both die ! " 
 
 Dr. Brown hardly heard her appeal, so deeply was he 
 thinking, wondering, casting about in his mind for counsel. 
 But Rejoice Dale took her sister's hand in hers. 
 
 " ( Though a thousand fall beside thee, and ten thousand 
 at thy right hand, yet it shall not come nigh thee, ' " she 
 said steadfastly. " Our blind child is in her Father's hand, 
 Sister ; He leads her, and she can go nowhere without Him. 
 Go you now, and seek for her." 
 
 " I cannot ! " cried Vesta Dale, wringing her hands and 
 weeping. "I cannot leave you, Rejoice. You know I 
 cannot leave you." 
 
 Both women felt for the first time, with a pang unspeak- 
 able, the burden of restraint. The strong woman wrung
 
 LOST. 63 
 
 her hands again, and moaned like a dumb creature in pain ; 
 the helpless body of the cripple quivered and shrank away 
 from itself, but the soul within was firm. 
 
 "You must go," said Miss Rejoice, quietly. "Neither 
 of us could bear it if you stayed. If I know you are 
 searching, I can be patient; and I shall have help." 
 
 "Amanda Loomis could come," said Miss Vesta, mis- 
 understanding her. 
 
 "Yes," said Rejoice, with a faint smile; " Amanda can 
 come, and I shall do very well indeed till you come back 
 witli the child. Go at once, Vesta; don't lose a moment. 
 Put on your bonnet and shawl, and Doctor will drive you 
 over to the Corners. The stage goes by in an hour's time, 
 and you have none too long to reach it." 
 
 Dr. Brown seemed to wake suddenly from the distressful 
 dream in which he 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 to perform at noon, Tt 
 is a case of life and death, and I have no right to leave it. 
 The man's whole life is not worth one hour of Melody's," 
 he added with some bitterness ; " but that makes no Differ- 
 ence, I suppose. I have no choice in the matter. Girls ! " 
 he cried, "you know well enough that if it were my own 
 life^ I would throw it down the well to give the child an 
 hour's pleasure, let alone saving her from misery, and 
 perhaps from death ! " he added to himself ; for only he and 
 the famous physician who had examined Melody at his 
 instance knew that under all the joy and vigor of the 
 child's simple, healthy life lay dormant a trouble of the 
 heart, which would make any life of excitement or fatigue 
 fatal to her in short space, though she might live in quiet 
 mam; happy years. Yes, one other person knew this, hia
 
 64 MELODY, 
 
 friend Dr. Anthony, whose remonstrances against the 
 wickedness of hiding this rare jewel from a world of 
 appreciation and of fame could only be silenced by 
 showing him the bitter drop which lay at the heart of 
 the rose. 
 
 Rejoice Dale reassured him by a tender pressure of the 
 hand, and a few soothing words. They had known each 
 other ever since their pinafore days, these three people. 
 He was younger % than Miss Rejoice, and he had been 
 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 native village ; but soon he had 
 so fully shown his claim to the grave title that "the 
 girls " and every one else had forgotten the fact that he 
 had once been " Jack " to the whole village. 
 
 "Doctor," said the sick woman, "try not to think about 
 it more than you ca:i help ! There are all the sick people 
 looking to you as next to the hand of God ; your path is 
 clear before you." 
 
 Dr. Brown groaned. He wished his path were not so 
 clear, that he might in some way make excuse to turn 
 aside from it. " I will give Vesta a note to Dr. Anthony," 
 \e 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 came in, 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 ; you
 
 LOST. 65 
 
 are trembling all over. God help us ! " cried Dr. Brown, 
 again. 
 
 For a moment the two strong ones stood irresolute, 
 feeling themselves like little children in the grasp of a fate 
 too big for them to grapple. 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 were a few 
 moments of silence, as if all were waiting for something, 
 they knew 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 and far, it seemed at first only a note of the 
 summer breeze, taking a deeper tone than its usual soft 
 murmur. It deepened still; took form, rhythm; made 
 itself a body of sound, sweet, piercing, thrilling on the ear. 
 And at the .sound of it, Vesta Dale fell away again into 
 helpless weeping, like a frightened child ; for it was the 
 tune of " Rosin the Beau." 
 
 " 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 our life and his is gone out ? "
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 FT OW did the time pass with the sick woman, ^ iraug in 
 *- * the little chamber, listening day by day am] hour by 
 hour for the steps, the voices, which did not come ? Miss 
 Rejoice was very peaceful, very quiet, too quiet, thought 
 Mandy Loomis, the good neighbor who watched by her, 
 fulfilling her little needs, and longing with a thirsty soul 
 for a good dish of gossip. If Rejoice would only "open 
 her mind ! " it would be better for her, and such a relief 
 to poor Mandy, unused to silent people who bore their 
 troubles with a smile. 
 
 " Where do you s'pose she is, Rejoice ? " Mrs. Loomis 
 would cry, twenty times a day. " Where do you s'pose she 
 is ? Ef we only knew, ' t would be easier 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 the Lord'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. " She ain'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 I tell 
 ye. Settin' here with my hands in my lap, and she so quiet 
 in there, well, I do want to fly sometimes, seems 's though,
 
 WAITING. 67 
 
 Well, I am glad to see you, to be sure. Tiie* ain't a soul 
 ben by this day. Set down, do. You want to go in 'n' see 
 Rejoice ? Jest in a minute. I do think I shall have a 
 sickness if I don't have some one to open my mind to. 
 Now, Mis' Penny, where do you s'pose, where do you s'pose 
 that child is ? " Then, without waiting for a reply, she 
 plunged headlong into the stream of talk. 
 
 " Xo, we ain't heard a word. Vesta went off a week ago, 
 and Mr. De Arthenay with her. Providential, was n't it, 
 his happenin' along just in 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 if 
 there 'd ben such a good lookout as she thinks, well, 
 there ! I don't want to be profane ; but I will say 't was a 
 providence, Mr. De Arthenay happenin' along. Well, they 
 went, and not a word have we heard sence but just one 
 letter from Vesta, sayin' they had n't found no trace yet, 
 but they hoped to every day, and land sakes, we knew 
 that, I should hope. Dr. Brown comes in every day to 
 cheer her up, though I do declare I need it more than she 
 doos, seems 's though. He 's as close as an oyster, Dr. 
 Brown is ; I can't even get the news out of him, most 
 times. How 's that boy of 'Bind Parker's, him that fell 
 and hurt his leg so bad ? Gettin' well, is he ? " 
 
 "No, he is n't," said Mrs. Penny, stepping in quickly on 
 the question, as her first chance of getting in a word. 
 " He 's terrible slim ; I heard Doctor 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.
 
 68 MELODY. 
 
 " 'T will be a terrible loss to his mother," said Mandy 
 Loomis. " Such a likely boy as he was gettin' to be, and 
 'Biud so little good, one way and another. 11 
 
 " Do you think they '11 hear news of Melody ? " asked 
 Mrs. Penny, changing the 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 I reelly think, Mis' Fenny, it 's that. I don't 
 think we shall ever set eyes on that blessed child again. 
 Rejoice is so sartin sure, sometimes my hopes get away 
 with me, and I forgit my jedgment for a spell. But there ! 
 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 week now, Mis' Penny. Every 
 night . the death-watch has ticked in Mel'dy's room the 
 endurin' night. I don't sleep, you know, fit to support a 
 flea. I hear every hour strike right straight along, and 1 
 know things that 's hid from others, Mis' Penny, though I 
 do say it. Last night as ever was I heard a sobbin' and a 
 sighin' goin' round the house, as plain 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 solemnly 
 believe that was Mel'dy's sperrit, and the child is dead. It 
 ain't my interest to say it," she cried, with a sudden change 
 of tone, putting her 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 weakly spells, 
 the' warn't nobody but Mel'dy could ha' brought me out of 
 'em alive, well I know. She tended me and sung to me
 
 WAITING. 69 
 
 like all the angels in heaven, and when she 'd lay her hand 
 on rae well, there ! seems 's though my narves 'ud quiet 
 right down, and blow away like smoke. I 've ben a well 
 woman that is to say, for one that 's always enjoyed poor 
 health 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 he makes 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 give 
 nit- \v;is a little pepsin, or tell me to take as much sody as 
 would lay on the p'int of a penknife, or some such thing, 
 not so much as you'd give to a canary-bird. 1 do some- 
 times wish we had a doctor who knew the 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 Pegrura 
 seven Liver Pills at one dose, and only charged her fifty 
 cents, over 'n' above the cost of the pills. Now that's 
 what I call doctorin', not but what I like Dr. Brown 
 well enough. But Mel'dy well, there ! and now to have 
 her took off so suddin, and never to know whether she 's 
 buried respectable, 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 tell a soul! It's as true 
 as I live, they have a furnace where they burn folks' 
 bodies, for all the world as if they was hick'ry lawgs. My 
 cousin Salome's nephew that lives in the city saw one once. 
 He thought it was connected with the gas-works, but he 
 did n'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
 
 70 MELODY. 
 
 hand over her mouth, with a scared loo'k. The door of the 
 bedroom had swung open in the breeze, and in the stress of 
 feeling Mandy Loornis had raised her voice higher and 
 higher, till the last words rang through the house like the 
 wail of a sibyl. But above the wail another sound was now 
 rising, the voice of Kejoice Dale, not calm and gentle, 
 as they had always 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 eyes wide, her arm outstretched, pointing at 
 what ? Involuntarily they turned 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 it a spirit ? Tell us, for pity's sake ! " 
 
 But even at that moment a change came. The rigid 
 muscles relaxed, the whole face softened to its usual 
 peaceful look ; the arm dropped gently, and Kejoice Dale 
 sank back upon her pillow and smiled. 
 
 " Thy rod and thy staff ! " she said. " Thy rod and thy 
 staff! they comfort me." And for the first time since 
 Melody was lost, she fell asleep, and slept like a little 
 child.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 BLONDEL. 
 
 VTOONTLDE in the great city! The July sun blazes 
 * ^ down upon the brick sidewalks, heating them through 
 and through, till they scorch the bare toes of the little 
 street children, who creep about, sheltering their eyes with 
 their hands, and keeping in the shade when it is possible. 
 The apple-women crouch close to the wa}l, under their 
 green umbrellas ; the banana-sellers look yellow and wilted 
 as their own wares. Men pass along, hurrying, because 
 they are Americans, arid business must go on whether 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 wear straw hats, and there is a great 
 display of palm-leaf fans, waving in all degrees of energy. 
 Here and there is seen an umbrella, but these are not fre- 
 quent, for it seems to the American a strange and womanish 
 thing to carry an umbrella except 'for rain ; it also requires 
 attention, and takes a man's mind off his business. Each 
 man of all the hurrying thousands is shut up in himself, 
 carrying his little world, which is all the world there is, 
 about with him, seeing the other hurrying mites only " as 
 trees walking," with no thought or note of them. Who 
 cares about anybody else when it is so hot ? Get through
 
 72 MELODY. 
 
 the day's work, and away to tlie wife and children in the 
 cool by the sea-shore, or in the- comfortable green suburb, 
 where, if one must still be hot, one can at least suffer de- 
 cently, and not " like a running river be," with apologies 
 to the boy Chatterton. 
 
 Among all these hurrying motes in the broad, fierce 
 stream of sunshine, one figure moves slowly, without haste. 
 Nobody looks at anybody else, or this figure might attract 
 some attention, even in the streets of the great city. An 
 old man, tall and slender, with snowy hair falling in a 
 single curl over his forehead; with brown eyes which 
 glance birdlike here and there, seeing everything, taking 
 in every face, every shadow of a vanishing form that 
 hurries along and away from him ; with fiddle-bow in hand, 
 and fiddle held close and tenderly against his shoulder. 
 De Arthenay, looking for his little girl! 
 
 Not content with scanning every face as it passes, he 
 looks up at the houses, searching with eager eye their blank, 
 close-shuttered walls, as if in hope of seeing through the 
 barriers of brick and stone, and surprising the secrets that 
 may lurk within. Now and then a house seems to take his 
 fancy, for he stops, and still looking up at the windows, 
 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. A languid crowd gathers round 
 him when he pauses thus, for street-boys know 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 the silent windows (they are generally 
 silent; or if a face looks out, it is not the beloved one 
 which is in his mind night and day, day and night) and
 
 BLONDEL. 73 
 
 scans the faces around him, with sad, eager eyes. Then, 
 stopping short in his playing, he taps sharply on his fiddle, 
 and asks in a clear voice if any one has seen or heard of a 
 blind child, with beautiful brown hair, clear blue eyes, and 
 the most wonderful voice in the world. 
 
 No one has heard of such a child ; but one tells K* n of a 
 blind negro who can play the trombone, and another knows 
 of a blind woman who tells fortunes " equal to the best 
 mejums;" and so on, and so on. He shakes his head with 
 a patient look, makes his grand bow, and passes on to the 
 next street, the next wondering crowd, the next disappoint- 
 ment. Sometimes he is hailed by some music-hall keeper 
 who hears him play, and knows a good thing when he hears 
 it, and who engages the old fiddler to play for an evening 
 or two. He goes readily enough ; for there is no knowing 
 where the dark stranger may have taken the child, and where 
 no clew is, one may follow any track that presents 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 degree of 
 refinement, make fun of him, and cut many a joke at the 
 expense of his blue coat and brass buttons, his nankeen 
 trousers and old-fashioned stock. But he heeds them not; 
 and once he begins to play, 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 to him, and asks her 
 in a low tone the usual question : has she seen or heard 
 of a blind child, with the most beautiful hair, etc. He is 
 careful whom he asks, however ; he would not insult Melody 
 by asking for her of some of these young women, with bold 
 eyes, with loose hair and disordered looks. So he sits 
 and plays, a quaint, old-world figure, among the laughing,
 
 74 MELODY. 
 
 dancing, foolish crowd. Old Be Arthenay, from the Andre- 
 scoggin, what would his ancestor, the gallant Marquis 
 who came over with Baron Castine to America, what 
 would the whole line of ancestors, from the crusaders down, 
 say to see their descendant in such a place as this ? He 
 has always held his head high, though he has earned his 
 bread by fiddling, varied by shoemaking in the winter-time. 
 He has always kept good company, he would tell you, and 
 would rather go hungry any day than earn a dinner among 
 people who do not regard the decencies of life. Even in this 
 place, people come to feel the quality of the old man, some- 
 how, and no one speaks rudely to him ; and voices are even 
 lowered as they pass him, sitting grave and erect on his 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 one here knows enough to dance 
 that, so he comes back to the simpler airs again. And as 
 he plays, the whole tawdry, glaring scene drops away from 
 the old man's eyes, and instead of vulgar gaslight he sees 
 the soft glow of the afternoon sun on the country road, 
 and the graceful elms bending in an arch overhead, as if to 
 watch the child Melody as she dances. The slender figure 
 swaying hither and thither, with its gentle, wind-blown 
 motion, the exquisite face alight with happiness, the float- 
 ing tendrils of hair, the most beautiful hair in the world ; 
 then the dear, homely country folks sitting by the road- 
 side, watching with breathless interest his darling, their 
 darling, the flower of the whole country-side ; Miss Vesta's 
 tall, stately figure in the doorway ; the vine-clad window, 
 behind which Rejoice lies, unseen, yet sharing all the 
 weet, simple pleasure with heartfelt enjoyment, all
 
 BLONDEL. 75 
 
 this the old fiddler sees, set plain before him. The " lady " 
 on his arm (for De Artheuay's fiddle is a lady as surely as 
 he is a gentleman), the lady feels it too, perhaps, for she 
 thrills to his touch, as the bow goes leaping over the 
 strings ; and more than one wild girl and rough fellow feels 
 a touch of something that has not been felt mayhap for 
 many a day, and goes home to stuffy garret or squalid 
 cellar the better for that night's music. And when it is 
 over, De Arthenay makes his stately bow once more, and 
 walks round the room, aski'ng his question in low tones of 
 such as seem worthy of it ; and then home, patient, un- 
 daunted, to the quiet lodging where Vesta Dale is sitting 
 up for him, weary after her day's search in other quarters 
 of the city, hoping little from his coming, yet unwilling to 
 lie down without a sight of his face, always cheery when it 
 meets hers, and the sound of his voice saying, 
 
 " Better luck to-morrow, Miss Vesta ! better luck to- 
 morrow ! There 's One has her in charge, and He did n't 
 need us to-day; that's all, my dear." 
 
 God help thee, De Arthenay ! God speed and prosper 
 thee, Rosin the Beau ! 
 
 But is not another name more fitting even than the 
 fantastic one of his adoption ? Is not this Blondel, faithful, 
 patient, undaunted, wandering by tower and town, singing 
 his song of love and hope and undying loyalty under every 
 window, till it shall one day fall like a breath from heaven 
 on the ear of the prisoner, sitting in darkness and the 
 shadow of death ?
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 DARKNESS. 
 
 " A ^^ kow ' s our swee t little lady to-day ? She 's looking 
 ** as pretty as a picture, 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 a certain unpleasant twang in it. She spoke to 
 Melody, who sat still, with folded hands, and head bowed 
 as if in a dream. 
 
 "1 am well, thank you," answered the child; and she 
 was silent again. 
 
 The woman glanced over her shoulder at a man who liad 
 followed her into the room, a dark man with an t-ager 
 face and restless, discontented eyes ; the same man who had 
 watched Melody over the wall of the old burying-gronnd, 
 and heard her sing. He had never heard her sing since, 
 save for that little snatch of " Robin Ruff," which she had 
 sung to the children the day when he stood and pleaded 
 with Vesta Dale to sell her soul for her sister's comfort. 
 
 " And here 's Mr. Anderson come to see you, according 
 to custom," said the woman ; " and I hope you are glad to 
 see him, I 'm sure, for he 's your best friend, dearie, and he 
 does love you so; it would be quite surprising, if you 
 were n't the sweet lamb you are, sitting there like a flower 
 all in the dark,"
 
 DARKNESS. 77 
 
 She paused, and waited for a reply; but none came. 
 The two exchanged a glance of exasperation, and the 
 woman shook her fist at the child ; but her voice was still 
 soft and smooth as she resumed her speech. 
 
 " And you '11 sing us a little song now, dearie, won't 
 you ? To think that you 've been here near a week now, 
 and I have n't heard the sound of that wonderful voice yet, 
 only in speaking. It 's sweet as an angel's then, to be sure ; 
 but dear me ! if you knew what Mr. Anderson has told me 
 about his hearing you sing that day ! Such a particular 
 gentleman as he is, too, anybody would tell you! Why, 
 I 've seen giris with voices as they thought the wonder of 
 the world, and their friends with them, and Mr. Anderson 
 would no more listen to them than the dirt under his feet; 
 no, indeed, he would n't. And you that he thinks so much 
 of ! why, it makes me feel real bad to see you not take that 
 comfort in him as you might. Why, he wants to be a father 
 to you, dearie. He has n't got any little girl of his own, 
 and he will give you everything that 's nice, that he will, 
 just as soon as you begin to get a little fond of him, and 
 realize all he 's doing for you. Why, most young ladies 
 would give their two eyes for your chance, I can tell you." 
 
 She was growing angry in spite of herself, and the man 
 Anderson pulled her aside. 
 
 " It 's no use," he said. " We shall just have to wait. 
 You know, my dear," he continued, addressing the child, 
 u you know that you will never see your aunts again unless 
 you do sing. You sense that, do you ? " 
 
 No reply. Melody shivered a little, then drew herself 
 together and was still, the stillest figure that ever 
 breathed and lived. Anderson clenched his hands and 
 fairly trembled with rage and with the effort to conceal
 
 78 MELODY, 
 
 it. He must not frighten the child too much. He could 
 not punish her, hurt her in any way ; for any shock might 
 injure the precious voice which was to make his fortune. 
 He was no fool, this man. He had some knowledge, more 
 ambition. He had been unsuccessful on the whole, had been 
 disappointed in several ventures ; now he had found a treas- 
 ure, a veritable gold-mine, and he could not work it I 
 Could anything be more exasperating ? This child, whose 
 voice could rouse a whole city a city ! could rouse the 
 world to rapture, absolutely refused to sing a note ! He 
 had tried cajolery, pathos, threats $ he had called together 
 a chosen company of critics to hear the future Catalani, and 
 had been forced to send them home empty, having heard 
 no note of the marvellous voice ! The child would not 
 sing, she would not even 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 the shoulders and shake the voice out of her ; his 
 hands fairly itched to get hold of the obstinate little piece 
 of humanity, who, in her childishness, her helplessness, her 
 blindness, thus defied him, and set all his cherished plans 
 at nought. 
 
 And yet he would not have shaken her probably, even 
 had he dared to do so. He was not a violent man, nor 
 a wholly bad one. He could steal a child, and convince 
 himself that it was for the child's good as well as his own ; 
 but he could not hurt a child. He had once had a little 
 girl of his own ; it was quite true that he had intended to 
 play a father's part to Melody, if she -would only have 
 behaved herself. In the grand drama of success that he 
 had arranged so carefully, it was a most charming role that 
 he had laid out for himself, Anderson the benefactor,
 
 DARKXESS. 79 
 
 Anderson the discoverer, the adopted father of the prodigy, 
 the patron of music. Crowds hailing him with rapturous 
 gratitude; the wonder-child kneeling and presenting him 
 with a laurel crown, which had been thrown to her, but 
 which she rightly felt to be his due, who had given her all, 
 and brought her from darkness into light 1 Instead of 
 tliis, what part was this he was really playing? Anderson 
 the kidnapper; Anderson the villain, the ruffian, the in- 
 vader of peaceful homes, the bogy to scare naughty chil- 
 dren with. He did not say all this to himself, perhaps, 
 because he was not, save when carried away by professional 
 enthusiasm, an imaginative man ; but he felt thoroughly 
 uncomfortable, and, above all, absolutely at sea, not know- 
 ing which way to turn. As he stood thus, irresolute, the 
 woman by his side eying him furtively from time to time, 
 Melody turned her face toward him and spoke. 
 
 " If you will take me home," she said, " I will sing to 
 you. I will sing all clay, if you like. But here I will never 
 sing. It would not be possible for you to make me do it, 
 so why do you try ? You made a mistake, that is all." 
 
 " Oh, that 's all, is it ? " repeated Anderson. 
 
 " Yes, truly," the child went on, " Perhaps you do not 
 mean to be unkind, 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. "You know that well enough. I have told 
 you how it will all be, a hundred times. You were not 
 meant for a little village, and a few dull old people ; you 
 are for the world, the great world of wealth and fashion 
 and power. If you were not either a fool or or I 
 don't know what, you would see the matter as it really is.
 
 80 MELODY. 
 
 Mrs. Brown is right : most girls would give their eyes, and 
 t;heir ears too, for such a chance as you have. You are only 
 i child, and a very foolish child ; and you don't know what 
 is good for you. Some day you will be thankful to me for 
 naking you sing." 
 
 Melody smiled, and her smile said much, for Anderson 
 turned red, and clenched his hands fiercely. 
 
 " You belong to the world, I tell you ! " he cried again 
 " The world has a right to you." 
 
 " To the world ? " the child repeated softly. " Yes, it is 
 true ; I do belong to the world, to God's world of beauty, 
 to the woods and fields, the flowers and grasses, and to the 
 people who love me. When the birds sing to me I can 
 answer them, and they know that my song is as sweet as 
 their own. The brook tells me its story, and I tell it again, 
 and every ripple sounds in my voice ; and I know that 1 
 please the brook, and all who hear me, little beasts, and 
 flowers that nod on their stems to hear, and trees that bend 
 down to touch me, and tell me by their touch that they are 
 well pleased. And children love to hear me sing, and I 
 can fill their little hearts with joy. I sing to sick people, 
 and they are easier of their pain, and perhaps they may 
 sleep, when they have not been able to sleep for long 
 nights. This is my life, my work. I am God's child ; and 
 do you think I do not know the work my Father has given 
 me to do ? " With a sudden movement she stepped for^ 
 ward, and laid her hand lightly on the man's breast. " You 
 are God's child, too ! " she said, in a low voice. " Are you 
 doing His work now ? " 
 
 There was silence in the room. Anderson was as if spell- 
 bound, his eyes fixed on the child, who stood like a youthful 
 prophetess, her head thrown back, her beautiful face full of
 
 DARKNESS. 81 
 
 solemn light, her arm raised in awful appeal. The woman 
 threw her apron over her head and began to cry. The man 
 moistened his lips twice or thrice, trying to speak, but no 
 words came. At length he made a sign of despair to his 
 accomplice; moved back from that questioning, warning 
 hand, whose light touch seemed to burn through and 
 through him, moved away, groping for the door, his 
 eyes still fixed on the child's face ; stole out finally, as a 
 thief steals, and closed the door softly behind him. 
 
 Mflody stood still, looking up to heaven. A great peace 
 filled her heart, which had been so torn and tortured these 
 many days past, ever since the dreadful moment when she 
 had been forced away from her home, from her life, and 
 brought into bondage and the shadow of death. She had 
 thought till to-day that she should die. Not that she was 
 deserted, not that God had forgotten, oh, no ; but that He 
 did not need her any longer here, that she had not been 
 worthy of the work she had thought to be hers, and that 
 now she was to be taken elsewhere to some other task. She 
 was only a child ; her life was strong in every limb ; but 
 God could not mean her to live here, in this way, that 
 would not be merciful, and His property was always to 
 have mercy. So death would come, death as a friend, 
 just as Auntie Joy had always described 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 her heart, coming she knew not 
 whence, rilling it with pulses and waves of joy. She 
 thought of her home ; and it seemed to grow nearer, more 
 distinct, at every moment. She saw (as blind people see) the 
 face of Rejoice Dale, beaming with joy and peace ; she felt 
 
 6
 
 82 MELODY. 
 
 the strong clasp of Miss Vesta's hand. She smelt the lilacs, 
 the white lilacs beneath which she loved to sit and sing. 
 She heard oh, God ! what did she hear ? What sound 
 was this in her ears ? Was it still the dream, the lovely 
 dream of home, or was a real sound thrilling in her ears, 
 beating in her heart, filling the whole world with the voice 
 of hope, 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 V ^sli. 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 dash my foot against a stone ! A 
 welcome, oh, on my knees, in humble thanksgiving, in 
 endless love and praise, a welcome to Rosin the Beau ! 
 
 An hour later Mrs. Brown stood before her employer, 
 flushed and disordered, making her defence. 
 
 "I couldn't have helped it, not if I had died for it, Mr. 
 Anderson. You could n't have helped it yourself, if you 
 had been there. When she heard that fiddle, the child 
 dropped on her knees as if she had been shot, and I thought 
 she was going to faint. But the next minute she was at 
 the window, and such a cry as she gave ! the sound of it is 
 in my bones yet, and will be till I die." 
 
 She paused, and wiped her fiery face, for she had run 
 bareheaded through the blazing streets. 
 
 "Then he came in, the old man. He was plain 
 dressed, but he came in like a king to his throne ; and the 
 child drifted into his arms like a flake of snow, and there
 
 J1ARKNESS. . 83 
 
 she lay. Mr. Anderson, when he held her there on his 
 breast, and turned and looked at me, with his eyes like two 
 black coals, all power was taken from me, and I could n't 
 have moved if it 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 foot till 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 seemed to melt away together, 
 he with his arm round her waist, holding her up like; 
 and she with her face turned up to his, and a look like 
 heaven, if I ever hope to see heaven. The next minute 
 they was gone, and still I had n'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 did n't. I am glad 
 he has got her ! If I was to lose my place fifty times over, 
 as you 've always been good pay and a kind gentleman too, 
 still I say it, I 'in glad he has got her. She was n't of your 
 kind, sir, nor of mine neither. And and I 've never been 
 a professor," cried the woman, with her apron at her eyes, 
 " but I hope I know an angel when I see one, and I mean 
 to be a better woman from this day, so I do. And she 
 asked God to bless me, Mr. Anderson, she did, as she went 
 away, because I meant to be kind to her ; and I did mean 
 it, the blessed creature ! And she said good-by to you too, 
 sir ; and she knew you thought it was for her good, only 
 you did n't know what God meant. And I 'm so glad, 1 'm 
 so glad ! "
 
 84 . 
 
 She stopped short, more surprised than she had ever been 
 in her life ; for Edward Anderson was shaking her hand 
 violently, and telling her that she was a good woman, a 
 very good woman indeed, and that he thought the better of 
 her and had been thinking for some time of raising her 
 salarv
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LIGHT. 
 
 T LOVE the morning light, the freshness, the pearls 
 and diamonds, the fairy linen spread on the grass to 
 bleach (there be those who call it spider-web, but to such I 
 speak not), the silver fog curling up from river and valley. 
 I love it so much that I am loath to confess that sometimes 
 the evening light is even more beautiful. Yet is there a 
 softness that comes with the close of day, a glorification of 
 common things, a drawing of purple shadows over all that 
 is rough or unsightly, which makes the early evening per- 
 haps the most perfect time of all the perfect hours. 
 
 It was such an hour that now brooded over the little 
 village, when the people came out from their houses to 
 watch for Melody's coming. It is a pretty little village 
 at all times, very small and straggling, but lovely with 
 flowers and vines and dear, homely old houses, which 
 have not found out that they are again in the fashion 
 out of which they were driven many years ago, but still 
 hold themselves humbly, with a respect for the brick and 
 stucco of which they have heard from time to time. It 
 is always pretty, I say, but this evening it had received 
 some fresh baptism of beauty, as if the Day knew what 
 was coming, and had pranked herself in her very best for 
 the festival. The sunbeams slanted down the straggling, 
 grass-grown road, and straightway it became an avenue
 
 86 MELODY. 
 
 of wonder, with gold-dust under foot, flecked here and 
 there with emerald. The elms met over head in triumphal 
 arches ; the creepers on the low houses hung out wonderful 
 scarfs and banners of welcome, which swung gold and 
 purple in the joyous light. And as the people came out 
 of their houses, now that the time was drawing near, lo ! 
 the light was on their faces too ; and the plain New Eng- 
 land men and women, in their prints and jeans, shone like 
 the figures in a Venetian picture, and were all a-glitter with 
 gold and precious stones for once in their lives, though they 
 knew it not. 
 
 But not all of this light came from the setting sun ; on 
 every face was the glow of a great joy, and every voice was 
 soft with happiness, and the 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, whom they had 
 mourned as lost. They were telling of her gracious words 
 and ways, so different from anything else they had known, 
 her smiles, and the way she held her head when she 
 sang ; and the way she found things out, without ever any 
 one telling her. Wonderful, was it not ? Why, one dared 
 not have ugly thoughts in her presence ; or if they came, 
 one tried to hide them away, deep down, so that Melody 
 should not see them with her blind eyes. Do you remember 
 how Joel Pottle took too much one day (nobody knows to 
 this day where he got it, and his folks all temperance 
 people), and how he stood out in the road and swore at the 
 folks coming out of meeting, and how Melody came along 
 and took him by the hand, and led him away down by the 
 brook, and never left- him till he was a sober man again ? 
 And every one knew Joel had never touched a drop of 
 liquor from that day on.
 
 LIGHT. 87 
 
 Again, could they ever forget how she saved the baby, 
 Jane Pegrum's baby, that had been forgotten by its 
 frantic mother in the burning house ? 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, 
 unmoved above 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, just ready to burst out in another minute ") 
 and bringing it safe to the woman who lay fainting on the 
 grass below ! Vesta had never forgiven them for that, for 
 letting the child go : she was away at the time, and when 
 she came back and found Melody's eyebrows all singed 
 off, it did seem as though the village would n't hold her, 
 didn't it ? And Doctor was just as bad. But, there ! they 
 could n't have held her back, once she knew the child was 
 there ; and Rejoice was purely thankful. Melody seemed 
 to favor Rejoice, almost as if she might be her own child. 
 Vesta had more of this world in her, sure enough. 
 
 Is n't it about time for them to be coming ? Doctor 
 won't waste time on the road, you may be sure. Dreadful 
 crusty he was this morning, if any one tried to speak to 
 him. Miss Meechin came along just as he was harnessing 
 up, and asked if he could n't give her something to ease up 
 her sciatica a little mite, and what do you think he said ? 
 "Take it to the Guinea Coast and drown it!" Not another 
 word could she get out of him. Now, that's no way to 
 talk to a patient. But Doctor has n't been himself since 
 Melody was stole ; anybody could see that with his mouth. 
 Look at how he 's treated that man with the operation, that 
 kept him from going to find the child himself ! He never 
 said a word to him, they say, and tended him as careful as
 
 88 MELODY. 
 
 a woman, every day since he got hurt ; but just as soon as 
 he got through with him, he 'd go out in the yard, they 
 say, and swear at the pump, till it would turn your blood 
 cold to hear him. It 's gospel truth, for I had it from the 
 nurse, and she said it chilled her marrow. Yes, a violent 
 mail, 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 he had a spite 
 agahist him. Seemed trifling, some thought, but he 's 
 like to pay for it. Did you hear the sound of wheels ? 
 Look at Aiwt and Alfred, over there with the baby; 
 bound to have the first sight of them, are n't they, standing 
 on <? wall like that ? They are as happy as two birds, 
 ever since they made up that time. Yes, Melody's doing 
 too, that was. She did n't know it; but she does n't know 
 the tenth of what she does. Just the sight of her coming 
 along the road hark ! surely I heard the click of the 
 doctor's mare. Does seem hard to wait, does ri't it ? But 
 Rejoice, what do you suppose it is for Rejoice ? only 
 she 's used to it, as you may say. 
 
 Yes, Rejoice is used to waiting, surely ; what else is her 
 life ? In the little white cottage now, Mandy Loomis, in a 
 fever of excitement, is running from door to window, flap- 
 ping out flies with her apron, opening the oven door, fidget- 
 ing here and there like a distracted creature ; but in the 
 quiet room, where Rejoice lies with folded hands, all is 
 peace, brooding peace and calm and blessedness. The sick 
 woman does 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 most patient eyes in the world, 
 and turn them toward the window. Yes, Rejoice is 
 used to waiting; yet it is she who first catches the far-
 
 LIGHT. 89 
 
 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 might think the poor withered body deserted, 
 and the joyous soul away on the road, hovering round the 
 returning travellers as they make their triumphal entry. 
 
 For all can see them now. First the brown mare's head, 
 with sharp ears pricked, coming round the bend; then a 
 gleam of white, a vision of waving hair, a light form bend- 
 ing forward. Melody! Melody has come back to us! They 
 shout and laugh and cry, these quiet people. Alfred and 
 Alice his wife have run forward, and a. < dressing the 
 brown mare with tears of joy, holding the baby up for 
 Melody to feel and kiss, because it has grown so wo"tL. t -' 
 fully in this week of her absence. Mrs. Penny is weeping 
 down behind the hedge ; Mandy Loornis is hurling herself 
 out of the window as if bent on suicide ; Dr. Brown pishes 
 and pshaws, and blows his nose, and says they are a pack 
 of ridiculous noodles, and he must give them a dose of salts 
 all round to-morrow, as sure 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 of each. She 
 has hardly dared yet to loose her hold on these faithful 
 hands ; all the way from the city she has held them, with 
 almost convulsive pressure. Very high De Vrthenay holds 
 his head, be sure ! No marquis of all tht line ever was 
 prouder than he is this day. He ki?ses che child's little 
 hand when he hears the people shouc. and then shakes his 
 snowy curl, and looks about him like a king. Vesta Dale 
 has lost something of her stately carriage. Her face is 
 softer than people remember it, and one sees for the first 
 time a resemblance to her sister. And Dr. Brown oh, he 
 fumes and storms at the people, and calls them a pack of
 
 90 MELODY. 
 
 noodles ; but for all that, he cannot drive ten paces without 
 turning round to make sure that it is all true, 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 of joy and happy laughter ! Quiet, all voices of 
 welcome, ringing out from every throat, making the little 
 street echo from end to end ! Quiet all, for Melody is sing- 
 ing! Standing up, held fast by those faithful hands on 
 either side, the child lifts her face to heaven, lifts her heart 
 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 as- 
 cending and 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.
 
 A 000128964 4