seemed vibrant with the pressure of lively feet. The dancers advanced,
retired, wheeled and swayed in easy circles, swept up and down, and
across the floor in graceful lines.

Amid the happy scene the Old Trapper stood, his stalwart frame erect as
in his prime; while his great, strong face fairly beamed in benediction
upon the dancers. For his nature had within its depths that fine
capacity which enabled it to receive the brightness of surrounding
happiness and reflect it again.

It was a study to watch his face and mark the passage of changeful
moods; surprise, delight, and broad, warm-hearted humor, as they came to
and played across the responsive features. The man of the woods, of the
lonely shore, and of silence, seemed perfectly at home amid the noise
and commotion of human merry-making.

At last the music died away. The dancers checked their feet. The lady
who had been playing the piano rose wearily from the instrument and
joined a group of friends. The music was not adequate. The notes were
too sharp; too isolate; they did not flow together. There was no sweep
and swing, nor suavity of connected progress in the strains. The
instrument could not lift the dancers up and swing them onward through
the mazy motions.

"I tell ye, Henry," said the Old Trapper, as he turned to Herbert who
was standing by his side, "the pianner isn't the thing to dance by, for
sartin. It tinkles and chippers too much; it rattles and clicks. It
don't git hold of the feelin's, Henry;--it don't start the blood in yer
veins, nor set yer skin tinglin', nor make the feet dance agin yer will.
It's good enough in its way, no doubt; but it sartinly isn't the thing