When all the pretty feet were pointed and all the pretty eyes fixed on Denis, he counted: “One, two, three,” and began to play on his little fiddle. And at the first note it was as if a happy wind went through the room, and voices went with the wind.
“For the first note,” said Great-Aunt Hawthorne, “was memory, and the next love and the third laughter.” Never was such a tune. Denis played like a man in a dream, with flying fingers, but in truth the music came from the strings that had lain in the bog-wood box, whether he would or no. And presently the Widow Macmurchison clapped her hand to the India shawl, and “O, my heart,” she cried, “my heart and my youth!” Old Vandeleur put his hat under his chair at the word, and they went off footing it down the room like a pair possessed. The apothecary’s young man came out of the corner, his eyes all lost and shining, and he took the mayor’s youngest daughter and they danced too, light as the flame dances in the ling, she laughing low and the pride gone out of her face. The other girls were dancing together like wild-wood things, all a flutter of roses and ribbons, and their feet might have been shod with swallow’s wings. Their faces were bright and strange, and it was as if the music played in their hearts the tune of all happiness that had been, of all laughter that was to be. Never was such a tune.
For there was a more wonderful thing let loose in the room than ever the leprechaun was, and that was youth. The music was in their feet and the music was in their hearts. Little Mistress Dorothy danced up to Denis like a leaf in a warm wind, and her eyes were raised at last, and shone into his like stars in a merry heaven. She said no word, but she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and they danced off together. The measure they danced was different, and the music they heard was different, for there was grief in it and a shadow, as there is in all great things. The sweet wind and the voices seemed to follow them.
“Is there a light shining on dove’s wings?” said Dorothy in a dreaming voice.
“I see nothing but the light in your eyes.”
“Do you hear a beat of tears in the music?”
“I hear nothing but the beat of your heart,” said Denis as he played.
“Do you see a falling of leaves?”
“I see nothing but the flowering of the rose that folds the world,” and they danced on.
“That’s a work well finished,” said the leprechaun, who had been listening at the keyhole. And he hopped upstairs thoughtfully to old Berry’s room.