children's singing with his violin. He did it so well that the
school became the most popular in the village. It was much
pleasanter to sing than to listen to long addresses.

Jacques grew old gracefully, but he certainly grew old rapidly. His
beard was white; his shoulders were stooping; he suffered a good
deal in damp days from rheumatism--fortunately not in his hands, but
in his legs. One spring there was a long spell of abominable
weather, just between freezing and thawing. He caught a heavy cold
and took to his bed. Hose came over to look after him.

For a few days the old fiddler kept up his courage, and would sit up
in the bed trying to play; then his strength and his spirit seemed
to fail together. He grew silent and indifferent. When Hose came
in he would find Jacques with his face turned to the wall, where
there was a tiny brass crucifix hanging below the violin, and his
lips moving quietly.

"Don't ye want the fiddle, Jack? I 'd like ter hear some o' them
old-time tunes ag'in."

But the artifice failed. Jacques shook his head. His mind seemed
to turn back to the time of his first arrival in the village, and
beyond it. When he spoke at all, it was of something connected with
this early time.

"Dat was bad taim' when I near keel Bull Corey, hein?"

Hose nodded gravely.