With the thought of Daddy Joe came a new grievance. “And I just won’t let any one hurt it, either, I won’t. I love it, too. If Aunt Mean knew, she’d call me wicked, but she sha’n’t know—ever. I’ll make out I didn’t like the concert, so she can’t guess. No, I won’t, either, I suppose that ’ud be a lie. I just won’t say anything ’tall about it, ’cause I did like it. Oh, how I liked it, though! Still, I most wish there had been some one for me to stay with, so’s I couldn’t have gone, ’cause now I’ll wish and wish for always to hear some more.
“I wouldn’t mind so much about the girl in a white dress that sang those songs, or the man who played on the black organ, somethin’ like the one at Sunday school, only blacker and sweeter—it’s the fiddle I mind. It sounded like the river when it rubs against the little stones and tumbles over the rocks; and pretty soon it seemed just like the stream by the mill-dam, so big and strong-like, with it’s mind all made up. And then, by and by, it whispered. I wanted to cry then,—it was funny when I liked it so, too,—it whispered ever and ever so low, like the leaves talk together just before the rain falls, almost just like a violet smell could be if it made any noise.”
The moon was rising above the trees. The beauty of the mill-stream music was forgotten for the murmuring leaf sounds. A softer mood stole over her heart, stilling its turmoil.
Chee laid her head against the window-frame. Lower and lower it drooped, until it rested on the sill. The moon had disappeared when she awoke. The road was swallowed up in blackness. The room was so dark she could not see her little bed. She felt around, found it, and crept in. Still, sweet, far-off strains echoed through her dreams, bringing a smile—half-rapt, half-yearning.
CHAPTER II.
IT was scarcely daylight. A small white figure was picking its way, barefooted, across the dusty attic floor. It paused beside an old-fashioned, hair-covered trunk. Chee’s waking thought had been of the wonderful concert. Led by some unconscious motive, she had sought the loft for a sight of Daddy Joe’s fiddle. Raising the lid of the trunk, she slowly drew forth one article after another,—a scarlet shawl with little glistening beads fastened in its fringe, a pair of moccasins, a heavy Indian blanket wrought in gay colors, a silken scarf. She thoughtfully stroked the rich goods of the scarf and slipped her feet into the moccasins. “My mamma’s feet were most’s little’s mine,” she said, in the customary whisper of her reveries.
Spying a small box, she pulled it out and opened it. Across its cover was printed in large, uneven letters, “Mamma’s Playthings.” Lovingly she took in her arms a much worn corn-cob dolly; only a few streaks of paint were left for its face, only a few wisps of hair for its wig. She handled some little acorn cups and saucers as though they had been the frailest of china. Then, with a sigh, she remembered what had brought her to the attic, and laid aside several rudely moulded figures of clay. The trunk was almost emptied of its contents before she drew forth a battered violin case, opened it, and with reverent hands lifted out Daddy Joe’s fiddle. The bridge had slipped; instinctively she straightened it. “My Daddy Joe’s own dear fiddle.” Closing her eyes, she tried to remember how he had looked with the violin under his chin. Perhaps, after all, imagination as well as memory painted the picture before her,—her father’s tall, straight form as he drew the bow across the strings; a fainter vision of the gaily blanketed woman by his side.
“And I was there, too,” she murmured, dreamily fingering a string of Indians beads that hung around her neck. For some reason Aunt Mean has never taken these away from her. With a fold of her night-robe she began to polish the instrument. In doing so she disturbed one of its yellow strings. A low, trembling note vibrated through the loft. Chee’s face glowed. She would make music for herself. Why had she not thought of that before? In her delight, the child put both her arms around the old violin and passionately hugged it.
Taking the bow from its place, she said, “I’ll find the way they do it. I’ll begin this very night. Nobody shall hear it, ’cause they’re way downstairs. ’Sides, they’ll be asleep.”
Chee trembled with excitement. “I’ll hide it where I can find it in the dark,” she continued, stealthily, “so Aunt Mean’ll never know. She’d most kill me if she found out. I wonder why her mother named her such a name. Maybe she guessed what she’d be like when she got old, like the squaws used to long ago, or maybe it only just happened to fit her.” With these meditations she carefully hid the old violin box behind a chest.