'Rill was behind the counter; but from the back room the wail of the violin announced Hopewell's presence. The lively tunes which the storekeeper had played so much through the Winter just past—such as "Jingle Bells" and "Aunt Dinah's Quilting Party"—seemed now forgotten. Nor was Hopewell in a sentimental mood and his old favorite, "Silver Threads Among the Gold," could not express his feelings.
"Old Hundred" was the strain he played, and he drew it lingeringly out of the strings until it fairly rasped the nerves. No son of Israel, weeping against the wall in old Jerusalem, ever expressed sorrow more deeply than did Hopewell's fiddle at the present juncture.
"Oh, dear, Janice! that's the way he is all day long," whispered the bride, the tears sparkling in her eyes. "He says Lottie must go to Boston, and I guess he's right. The poor little thing doesn't see anywhere near as good as she did."
"Oh, my dear!" cried Janice, under her breath. "I wish I could help pay for her trip."
"No. You've done your part, Janice. You paid for the treatment before——"
"I only helped," interrupted Janice.
"It was a great, big help. Hopewell can never repay you," said the wife. "And he can accept no more from you, dear."
"But I haven't got it to offer!" almost wailed Janice. "Daddy's mine is shut down again. I—I could almost wish to sell my car—only it was a particular present from daddy——"
"No, indeed! There is going to be something else sold, I expect," 'Rill said gravely. "Here! let us go back. I don't like even to see this fellow come in here. Hopewell must wait on him."
Janice turned to see Joe Bodley, the fat, smirking bartender from the
Lake View Inn, now entering the store.