"Are you in pain? What is the matter, father?" repeated the lad.
"Nothing—no; I—I am not used to this, you know," faltered the old man. "Do not mind me, I am well."
Joseph went away, but cast wistful glances at his father over his violin. According to the unaccountable desire that had seized him, young Farnham heard the old man's voice. It ran through his veins with a glow, as if he had drained a glass of old wine, and it was some moments before he felt the thrill leave his nerves. Joseph took up his violin, but anxiety had depressed him, and his music lost its cheerfulness.
The dancers took their places, but Fred Farnham still lingered by the artist. Another strange impulse seized him. He obeyed it and touched the hand that lay upon the old man's knee.
The artist started, lifted his eyes and a smile broke over his face.
"Excuse me," said the youth deprecatingly, "I did not intend it."
Still the artist kept his eyes upon the boy, without speaking, but the smile grew sad as he gazed; and when Fred turned to go away, the hand he had touched was held eagerly forth.
"Don't—don't leave me yet," said the old man in a low, pathetic voice.
"I will come back again," said the youth gently. "I could not help it if I wished."
Again the old man smiled, and, bowing his head, allowed the youth to regain his partner.