here knows enough to dance that, so he comes back to the simpler airs
again. And as he plays, the whole tawdry, glaring scene drops away
from the old man's eyes, and instead of vulgar gaslight he sees the
soft glow of the afternoon sun on the country road, and the graceful
elms bending in an arch overhead, as if to watch the child Melody as
she dances. The slender figure swaying hither and thither, with its
gentle, wind-blown motion, the exquisite face alight with happiness,
the floating tendrils of hair, the most beautiful hair in the world;
then the dear, homely country folks sitting by the roadside, watching
with breathless interest his darling, their darling, the flower of the
whole country-side; Miss Vesta's tall, stately figure in the doorway;
the vine-clad window, behind which Rejoice lies, unseen, yet sharing
all the sweet, simple pleasure with heartfelt enjoyment,--all this the
old fiddler sees, set plain before him. The "lady" on his arm (for De
Arthenay's fiddle is a lady as surely as he is a gentleman),--the lady
feels it too, perhaps, for she thrills to his touch, as the bow goes
leaping over the strings; and more than one wild girl and rough fellow
feels a touch of something that has not been felt mayhap for many a
day, and goes home to stuffy garret or squalid cellar the better for
that night's music. And when it is over, De Arthenay makes his stately
bow once more, and walks round the room, asking his question in low
tones of such as seem worthy of it; and then home, patient, undaunted,
to the quiet lodging where Vesta Dale is sitting up for him, weary
after her day's search in other quarters of the city, hoping little
from his coming, yet unwilling to lie down without a sight of his
face, always cheery when it meets hers, and the sound of his voice
saying,--

"Better luck to-morrow, Miss Vesta! better luck tomorrow! There's One
has her in charge, and He didn't need us to-day; that's all, my dear."