"You, Mr. De Arthenay? Do tell us!"
Melody passed her hand rapidly over the old man's face, and then settled back with her former air of content, knowing that all was well.
"You shall hear my story," the old man said, drawing himself up, and giving his curl a toss. "It was the night I came away from Joppa. I had been taking tea with William Bradwell's folks, and stayed rather late in the evening, playing for the young folks, singing old songs, and one thing and another. It was ten o'clock when I said good-night and stepped out of the house and along the road. 'T was a fine night, bright moonlight, and everything shining like silver. I'd had a pleasant evening, and I felt right cheered up as I passed along, sometimes talking a bit to the Lady, and sometimes she to me; for I'd left her case at the house, seeing I should pass by again in the morning, when I took my way out of the place.
"Well, sir,—I beg your pardon; ladies, I should say,—as I came along a strip of the road with the moon full on it, but bordered with willow scrub,—as I came along, sudden a man stepped out of those bushes, and told me to stand and throw up my hands.—Don't be frightened, Melody," for the child had taken his hand with a quick, frightened motion; "have no fear at all! I had none. I saw, or felt, perhaps it was, that he had no pistols; that he was only a poor sneak and bully. So I said, 'Stand yourself!' I stepped clear out, so that the light fell full on my face, and I looked him in the eye, and pointed my bow at him. 'My name is De Arthenay,' I said. 'I am of French extraction, but I hail from the Androscoggin. I am known in this country. This is my fiddle-bow; and if you are not gone before I can count three, I'll shoot you with it. One!' I said; but I didn't need to count further. He turned and ran, as if the—as if a regiment was after him; and as soon as I had done laughing, I went on my way to the tavern."
All laughed heartily at the old man's story; but when the laughter subsided, Melody begged him to take "the Lady," and play for her. "I have not heard you play for so long, Rosin, except just when you called me."
"Yes, Mr. De Arthenay," said Miss Vesta, "do play a little for us, while I get supper. Suppose I bring the table out here, Melody; how would you like that?"
"Oh, so much!" cried the child, clapping her hands. "So very much! Let me help!"
She started up; and while the fiddler played, old sweet melodies, such as Miss Rejoice loved, there was a pleasant, subdued bustle of coming and going, clinking and rustling, as the little table was brought out and set in the vine-wreathed porch, the snowy cloth laid, and the simple feast set forth. There were wild strawberries, fresh and glowing, laid on vine-leaves; there were biscuits so light it seemed as if a puff of wind might blow them away; there were twisted doughnuts, and coffee brown and as clear as a mountain brook. It was a pleasant little feast; and the old fiddler glanced with cheerful approval over the table as he sat down.
"Ah, Miss Vesta," he said, as he handed the biscuits gallantly to his hostess, "there's no such table as this for me to sit down to, wherever I go, far or near. Look at the biscuit, now,—moulded snow, I call them. Take one, Melody, my dear. You'll never get anything better to eat in this world."
The child flushed with pleasure.