"But it's so unreasonable," cried Melody, as she stood holding by the
old man's hand, swaying lightly to and fro, as if the wind moved her
with the vines and flowers. "Why can't I stay a little girl? A little
girl is needed here, isn't she? And there is no need at all of another
woman. I can't be like Aunt Vesta or Auntie Joy; so I think I might
stay just Melody." Then shaking her curls back, she cried, "Well,
anyhow, I am just Melody now, and nothing more; and I mean to make the
most of it. Come, Rosin, come! I am ready for music. The dishes are
all washed, and there's nothing more to do, is there, Auntie? It is so
long since Rosin has been here; now let us have a good time, a perfect
time!"

De Arthenay took up his fiddle once more, and caressed its shining
curves. "She's in perfect trim," he said tenderly. "She's fit to play
with you to-night, Melody. Come, I am ready; what shall we have?"

Melody sat down on the little green bench which was her own particular
seat. She folded her hands lightly on her lap, and threw her head back
with her own birdlike gesture. One would have said that she was
calling the spirit of song, which might descend on rainbow wings, and
fold her in his arms. The old man drew the bow softly, and the fiddle
gave out a low, brooding note,--a note of invitation.

"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?
She wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown."

Softly the old man played, keeping his eyes fixed on the child, whose