herself out of the window as if bent on suicide; Dr. Brown pishes and
pshaws, and blows his nose, and says they are a pack of ridiculous
noodles, and he must give them a dose of salts all round to-morrow, as
sure as his name is John Brown. On the seat behind him sits Melody,
with Miss Vesta and the old fiddler on either side, holding a hand of
each. She has hardly dared yet to loose her hold on these faithful
hands; all the way from the city she has held them, with almost
convulsive pressure. Very high De Arthenay holds his head, be sure! No
marquis of all the line ever was prouder than he is this day. He
kisses the child's little hand when he hears the people shout, and
then shakes his snowy curl, and looks about him like a king. Vesta
Dale has lost something of her stately carriage. Her face is softer
than people remember it, and one sees for the first time a resemblance
to her sister. And Dr. Brown--oh, he fumes and storms at the people,
and calls them a pack of noodles; but for all that, he cannot drive
ten paces without turning round to make sure that it is all
true,--that here is Melody on the back seat, come home again, home,
never to leave them again.

But, hush, hush, dear children, running beside the wagon with cries of
joy and happy laughter! Quiet, all voices of welcome, ringing out from
every throat, making the little street echo from end to end! Quiet
all, for Melody is singing! Standing up, held fast by those faithful
hands on either side, the child lifts her face to heaven, lifts her
heart to God, lifts up her voice in the evening hymn,--

"Jubilate, jubilate!
Jubilate, amen!"

The people stand with bowed heads, with hands folded as if in prayer.