engages the old fiddler to play for an evening or two. He goes readily
enough; for there is no knowing where the dark stranger may have taken
the child, and where no clew is, one may follow any track that
presents itself. So the old man goes, and sits patiently in the hot,
noisy place. At first the merry-makers, who are not of a high degree
of refinement, make fun of him, and cut many a joke at the expense of
his blue coat and brass buttons, his nankeen trousers and
old-fashioned stock. But he heeds them not; and once he begins to
play, they forget all about his looks, and only want to dance, dance,
and say there never was such music for dancing. When a pleasant-
looking girl comes near him, or pauses in the dance, he calls her to
him, and asks her in a low tone the usual question: has she seen or
heard of a blind child, with the most beautiful hair, etc. He is
careful whom he asks, however; he would not insult Melody by asking
for her of some of these young women, with bold eyes, with loose hair
and disordered looks. So he sits and plays, a quaint, old-world
figure, among the laughing, dancing, foolish crowd. Old De Arthenay,
from the Androscoggin,--what would his ancestor, the gallant Marquis
who came over with Baron Castine to America, what would the whole line
of ancestors, from the crusaders down, say to see their descendant in
such a place as this? He has always held his head high, though he has
earned his bread by fiddling, varied by shoemaking in the winter-time.
He has always kept good company, he would tell you, and would rather
go hungry any day than earn a dinner among people who do not regard
the decencies of life. Even in this place, people come to feel the
quality of the old man, somehow, and no one speaks rudely to him; and
voices are even lowered as they pass him, sitting grave and erect on
his stool, his magic bow flying, his foot keeping time to the music.
All the old tunes he plays, "Money Musk," and "Portland Fancy," and
"Lady of the Lake." Now he quavers into the "Chorus Jig;" but no one