The stranger blushed crimson, and the white lids drooped over his eyes, as if something had been said to wound him.
"No," he said, with a quivering smile, "my poor music is not worth selling. Besides, my journey must end not far from this, or I have travelled slowly. Give me some clean water for my face and hands, that is all I ask."
"Of course we will, with a famous supper, too, that would make a ghost hungry. Come with us up to uncle Nat's. Water, why there is a trough full at his back door, that you may bathe in all over if you like; and as for cider, we'll just try that before you say anything about it."
The stranger arose and took up his violin; then lifting his large eyes, misty with fatigue, he said almost mournfully—
"Will some one give me his arm? I am very weary."
The young men became at once silent and respectful with these words, for there was something of reverence in their sympathy with a being at once so feeble and so full of gentle dignity.
"Let me carry the violin," said one, while another stout, brave fellow clasped the slender hand of the stranger, drew it over his own strong arm and led him carefully forth, hushing even the cheery tones of his voice as he spoke to the youth.
Thus subdued from hilarity to kindness, the group of young men conducted their new friend to the Old Homestead and into the outer room, where the table was newly spread, and where uncle Nat stood with a huge brown cider pitcher in his hand from which he began to fill the glasses as the crowd of guests rushed in.
Aunt Hannah, having performed her duty among her female guests, was busy in the milk-room, cutting up pies, dividing pound-cake into sections, and slicing cards of gingerbread, while uncle Nat presided diligently at the cider-cask.
Thus it happened that the stranger was almost overlooked in the crowd, for he sat down in a corner of the room, where his new friend brought him in abundance of dainties from the table, for Mary was too busy even for a glance that way.