For a full hour he played. Then laying his violin across his knees sat silent for a little. The music had cast a spell upon them. Even Ahmik, who had seated himself near the table, had let his pipe die out.
All at once the humorous wrinkles came again into the corners of Amesbury’s eyes, and the eyes began to sparkle and laugh. He arose and returned the violin to its case, humming as he did so:
“‘Hey diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle.’
“I always like a little music after supper,” he remarked, resuming his seat.
“Oh, ’twere more than music!” exclaimed Dan. “’T were—’t were—I’m thinkin’—’t were like in heaven. ’T weren’t fiddlin’, sir. ’T were music of angels in th’ fiddle, sir.”
“That’s the best compliment I ever received,” laughed Amesbury.
“Mr. Amesbury,” asked Paul, “where did you ever learn to play like that? I heard Madagowski, the great Polish violinist that every one raved over last year. I thought it was great then, but after hearing you it seems just common.”
“You chaps will make me vain if you keep this up,” and Amesbury laughed again.