know what her other name was. Anyway, she had an eye like black
lightning stirred up with a laugh, and a voice like the 'Fisherman's
Hornpipe.'"

He took up his fiddle, and softly, delicately, played a few bars of
that immortal dance. It rippled like a woman's laugh, and Melody
smiled in instant sympathy.

"I wish I had seen her," she cried. "Did she play well, Rosin?"

"She played so that I knew she must be either French or Irish!" the
fiddler replied. "No Yankee ever played dance-music in that fashion; I
made bold to say to her, as we were playing together, 'Etes-vous
compatriote?'

"'More power to your elbow,' said she, with a twinkle of her eye, and
she struck into 'Saint Patrick's Day in the Morning.' I took it up,
and played the 'Marseillaise,' over it and under it, and round
it,--for an accompaniment, you understand, Melody; and I can tell you,
we made the folks open their eyes. Yes; she was a fine young lady, and
it was a fine wedding altogether.

"But I am forgetting a message I have for you, ladies. Last week I was
passing through New Joppa, and I stopped to call on Miss Lovina Green;
I always stop there when I go through that region. Miss Lovina asked
me to tell you--let me see! what was it?" He paused, to disentangle
this particular message from the many he always carried, in his
journeyings from one town to another. "Oh, yes, I remember. She wanted
you to know that her Uncle Reuel was dead, and had left her a thousand
dollars, so she should be comfortable the rest of her days. She