CHAPTER IV.

ROSIN THE BEAU.


The afternoon light was falling soft and sweet, as an old man came
slowly along the road that led to the village. He was tall and thin,
and he stooped as he walked,--not with the ordinary round-shouldered
slouch, but with a one-sided droop, as if he had a habit of bending
over something. His white hair was fancifully arranged, with a curl
over the forehead such as little boys used to wear; his brown eyes
were bright and quick as a bird's, and like a bird's, they glanced
from side to side, taking in everything. He carried an oblong black
box, evidently a violin-case, at which he cast an affectionate look
from time to time. As he approached the village, his glances became
more and more keenly intelligent. He seemed to be greeting a friend in
every tree, in every straggling rose-bush along the roadside; he
nodded his head, and spoke softly from time to time.

"Getting on now," he said to himself. "Here's the big rose-bush she
was sitting under, the last time I came along. Nobody here now; but
she'll be coming directly, up from the ground or down from the sky, or
through a hole in the sunset. Do you remember how she caught her
little gown on that fence-rail?" He bent over, and seemed to address
his violin. "Sat down and took out her needle and thread, and mended
it as neat as any woman; and then ran her butterfly hands over me, and
found the hole in my coat, and called me careless boy, and mended
that. Yes, yes; Rosin remembers every place where he saw his girl. Old
Rosin remembers. There's the turn; now it's getting time for to be
playing our tune, sending our letter of introduction along the road