Ruth ran down the grass-plot and into the house. She neither shuffled nor ambled, but skimmed over the smooth turf as if she moved by volition and her feet had had nothing to do with the motion. She had scarce disappeared, when Isaiah, who faced the green door, sung out,
“Here's Ezra Gold, and bringin' a fiddle, too. Good-evenin', Mr. Gold. Beest gooin' to tek another turn at the music?”
“No,” said Ezra, advancing. “I expected to find Reuben here. I've got it on my mind as the poor old lady here “—he touched the green baize bag he carried beneath his arm—“is in a bit o' danger o' losin' her voice through keeping silence all these length o' years, and I want him to see what sort of a tone her's got left in her.”
Reuben rose from his seat with sparkling eyes and approached his uncle.
“Is that the old lady I've heard so much about?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Ezra, “it's the old lady herself. I don't know,” he went on, looking mildly about him, “as theer's another amateur player as I'd trust her to. Wait a bit, lad, while I show her into daylight.”
Reuben stood with waiting hands while the old man unknotted the strings at the mouth of the green baize bag, and all eyes watched Ezra's lean fingers. At the instant when the knot was conquered and the mouth of the bag slid open, Ruth's clear voice was heard calling,
“Father, here's Aunt Rachel! Come this way, Aunt Rachel. We're going to have a little music.”