"I cannot!" cried Vesta Dale, wringing her hands and weeping. "I cannot leave you, Rejoice. You know I cannot leave you."

Both women felt for the first time, with a pang unspeakable, the burden of restraint. The strong woman wrung her hands again, and moaned like a dumb creature in pain; the helpless body of the cripple quivered and shrank away from itself, but the soul within was firm.

"You must go," said Miss Rejoice, quietly. "Neither of us could bear it if you stayed. If I know you are searching, I can be patient; and I shall have help."

"Amanda Loomis could come," said Miss Vesta, misunderstanding her.

"Yes," said Rejoice, with a faint smile; "Amanda can come, and I shall do very well indeed till you come back with the child. Go at once, Vesta; don't lose a moment. Put on your bonnet and shawl, and Doctor will drive you over to the Corners. The stage goes by in an hour's time, and you have none too long to reach it."

Dr. Brown seemed to wake suddenly from the distressful dream in which he had been plunged. "Yes, I will drive you over to the stage, Vesta," he said. "God help me! it is all I can do. I have an operation to perform at noon. It is a case of life and death, and I have no right to leave it. The man's whole life is not worth one hour of Melody's," he added with some bitterness; "but that makes no difference, I suppose. I have no choice in the matter. Girls!" he cried, "you know well enough that if it were my own life, I would throw it down the well to give the child an hour's pleasure, let alone saving her from misery,—and perhaps from death!" he added to himself; for only he and the famous physician who had examined Melody at his instance knew that under all the joy and vigor of the child's simple, healthy life lay dormant a trouble of the heart, which would make any life of excitement or fatigue fatal to her in short space, though she might live in quiet many happy years. Yes, one other person knew this,—his friend Dr. Anthony, whose remonstrances against the wickedness of hiding this rare jewel from a world of appreciation and of fame could only be silenced by showing him the bitter drop which lay at the heart of the rose.

Rejoice Dale reassured him by a tender pressure of the hand, and a few soothing words. They had known each other ever since their pinafore days, these three people. He was younger than Miss Rejoice, and he had been deeply in love with her when he was an awkward boy of fifteen, and she a lovely seventeen-year-old girl. They had called him "doctor" at first in sport, when he came home to practise in his native village; but soon he had so fully shown his claim to the grave title that "the girls" and every one else had forgotten the fact that he had once been "Jack" to the whole village.

"Doctor," said the sick woman, "try not to think about it more than you can help! There are all the sick people looking to you as next to the hand of God; your path is clear before you."

Dr. Brown groaned. He wished his path were not so clear, that he might in some way make excuse to turn aside from it. "I will give Vesta a note to Dr. Anthony," he said, brightening a little at the thought. "He will do anything in his power to help us. There are other people, too, who will be kind. Yes, yes; we shall have plenty of help."

He fidgeted about the room, restless and uneasy, till Miss Vesta came in, in her bonnet and shawl. "I have no choice," he repeated doggedly, hugging his duty close, as if to dull the pressure of the pain within. "But how can you go alone, Vesta, my poor girl? You are not fit; you are trembling all over. God help us!" cried Dr. Brown, again.

For a moment the two strong ones stood irresolute, feeling themselves like little children in the grasp of a fate too big for them to grapple. The sick woman closed her eyes, and waited. God would help, in His good way. She knew no more, and no more was needed. There were a few moments of silence, as if all were waiting for something, they knew not what,—a sign, perhaps, that they were not forgotten, forsaken, on the sea of this great trouble.

Suddenly through the open window stole a breath of sound. Faint and far, it seemed at first only a note of the summer breeze, taking a deeper tone than its usual soft murmur. It deepened still; took form, rhythm; made itself a body of sound, sweet, piercing, thrilling on the ear. And at the sound of it, Vesta Dale fell away again into helpless weeping, like a frightened child; for it was the tune of "Rosin the Beau"

"Who shall tell him?" she moaned, covering her face with her hands, and rocking to and fro,—"oh, who shall tell him that the light of our life and his is gone out?"



CHAPTER VIII.

WAITING.

How did the time pass with the sick woman, waiting in the little chamber, listening day by day and hour by hour for the steps, the voices, which did not come? Miss Rejoice was very peaceful, very quiet,—too quiet, thought Mandy Loomis, the good neighbor who watched by her, fulfilling her little needs, and longing with a thirsty soul for a good dish of gossip. If Rejoice would only "open her mind!" it would be better for her, and such a relief to poor Mandy, unused to silent people who bore their troubles with a smile.

"Where do you s'pose she is, Rejoice?" Mrs. Loomis would cry, twenty times a day. "Where do you s'pose she is? Ef we only knew, 't would be easier to bear, seems 's though. Don't you think so, Rejoice?"

But Rejoice only shook her head, and said, "She is cared for, Mandy, we must believe. All we have to do is to be quiet, and wait for the Lord's time."

"Dear to goodness! She can wait!" exclaimed Mrs. Loomis to Mrs. Penny, when the latter came in one evening to see if any news had come. "She ain't done anything but wait, you may say, ever sence time was, Rejoice ain't. But I do find it dretful tryin' now, Mis' Penny, now I tell ye. Settin' here with my hands in my lap, and she so quiet in there, well, I do want to fly sometimes, seems 's though. Well, I am glad to see you, to be sure. The' ain't a soul ben by this day. Set down, do. You want to go in 'n' see Rejoice? Jest in a minute. I do think I shall have a sickness if I don't have some one to open my mind to. Now, Mis' Penny, where do you s'pose, where do you s'pose that child is?" Then, without waiting for a reply, she plunged headlong into the stream of talk.

"No, we ain't heard a word. Vesta went off a week ago, and Mr. De Arthenay with her. Providential, wasn't it, his happenin' along just in the nick o' time? I do get out of patience with Rejoice sometimes, takin' the Lord quite so much for granted as she doos; for, after all, the child was stole, you can't get over that, and seems's though if there'd ben such a good lookout as she thinks,—well, there! I don't want to be profane; but I will say 'twas a providence, Mr. De Arthenay happenin' along. Well, they went, and not a word have we heard sence but just one letter from Vesta, sayin' they hadn't found no trace yet, but they hoped to every day,—and land sakes, we knew that, I should hope. Dr. Brown comes in every day to cheer her up, though I do declare I need it more than she doos, seems's though. He's as close as an oyster, Dr. Brown is; I can't even get the news out of him, most times. How's that boy of 'Bind Parker's,—him that fell and hurt his leg so bad? Gettin' well, is he?"

"No, he isn't," said Mrs. Penny, stepping in quickly on the question, as her first chance of getting in a word. "He's terrible slim; I heard Doctor say so. They're afraid of the kangaroo settin' in in the j'int, and you know that means death, sartin sure."

Both women nodded, drawing in their breath with an awful relish.

"'T will be a terrible loss to his mother," said Mandy Loomis. "Such a likely boy as he was gettin' to be, and 'Bind so little good, one way and another."

"Do you think they'll hear news of Melody?" asked Mrs. Penny, changing the subject abruptly.

Amanda Loomis plumped her hands down on her knees, and leaned forward; it was good to listen, but, oh, how much better it was to speak!

"I don't," she said, with gloomy emphasis. "If you ask me what I reelly think, Mis' Penny, it's that. I don't think we shall ever set eyes on that blessed child again. Rejoice is so sartin sure, sometimes my hopes get away with me, and I forgit my jedgment for a spell. But there! see how it is! Now, mind, what I say is for this room only." She spread her hands abroad, as if warning the air around to secrecy, and lowered her voice to an awestruck whisper. "I've ben here a week now, Mis' Penny. Every night the death-watch has ticked in Mel'dy's room the endurin' night. I don't sleep, you know, fit to support a flea. I hear every hour strike right straight along, and I know things that's hid from others, Mis' Penny, though I do say it. Last night as ever was I heard a sobbin' and a sighin' goin' round the house, as plain as I hear you this minute. Some might ha' said't was the wind, but there's other things besides wind, Mis' Penny; and I solemnly believe that was Mel'dy's sperrit, and the child is dead. It ain't my interest to say it," she cried, with a sudden change of tone, putting her apron to her eyes: "goodness knows it ain't my interest to say it. What that child has been to me nobody knows. When I've had them weakly spells, the' warn't nobody but Mel'dy could ha' brought me out of 'em alive, well I know. She tended me and sung to me like all the angels in heaven, and when she'd lay her hand on me—well, there! seems's though my narves 'ud quiet right down, and blow away like smoke. I've ben a well woman—that is to say, for one that's always enjoyed poor health—sence Dr. Brown sent that blessed child to me. She has a gift, if ever any one had. Dr. Brown had ought to give her half of what he makes doctorin'; she's more help than all the medicine ever he gives. I never saw a doctor so dretful stingy with his stuff. Why, I've ben perishin' sometimes for want o' doctorin', and all he'd give me was a little pepsin, or tell me to take as much sody as would lay on the p'int of a penknife, or some such thing,—not so much as you'd give to a canary-bird. I do sometimes wish we had a doctor who knew the use o' medicine, 'stead of everlastin'ly talkin' about the laws o' health, and hulsome food, and all them notions. Why, there's old Dr. Jalap, over to the Corners. He give Beulah Pegrum seven Liver Pills at one dose, and only charged her fifty cents, over 'n' above the cost of the pills. Now that's what I call doctorin',—not but what I like Dr. Brown well enough. But Mel'dy—well, there! and now to have her took off so suddin, and never to know whether she's buried respectable, or buried at all! You hear awful stories of city ways, these times. Now, this is for this room only, and don't you ever tell a soul! It's as true as I live, they have a furnace where they burn folks' bodies, for all the world as if they was hick'ry lawgs. My cousin Salome's nephew that lives in the city saw one once. He thought it was connected with the gas-works, but he didn't know for sure. Mis' Penny, if Rejoice Dale was to know that Mel'dy was made into gas—"

Martha Penny clutched the speaker's arm, and laid her hand over her mouth, with a scared look. The door of the bedroom had swung open in the breeze, and in the stress of feeling Mandy Loomis had raised her voice higher and higher, till the last words rang through the house like the wail of a sibyl. But above the wail another sound was now rising, the voice of Rejoice Dale,—not calm and gentle, as they had always heard it, but high-pitched, quivering with intense feeling.

"I see her!" cried the sick woman. "I see the child! Lord, save her! Lord, save her!"

The two women hurried in, and found her sitting up in bed, her eyes wide, her arm outstretched, pointing—at what? Involuntarily they turned to follow the pointing finger, and saw the yellow-washed wall, and the wreath of autumn leaves that always hung there.

"What is it, Rejoice?" cried Mandy, terrified. "What do you see? Is it a spirit? Tell us, for pity's sake!"

But even at that moment a change came. The rigid muscles relaxed, the whole face softened to its usual peaceful look; the arm dropped gently, and Rejoice Dale sank back upon her pillow and smiled.

"Thy rod and thy staff!" she said. "Thy rod and thy staff! they comfort me." And for the first time since Melody was lost, she fell asleep, and slept like a little child.



CHAPTER IX.

BLONDEL.

Noontide in the great city! The July sun blazes down upon the brick sidewalks, heating them through and through, till they scorch the bare toes of the little street children, who creep about, sheltering their eyes with their hands, and keeping in the shade when it is possible. The apple-women crouch close to the wall, under their green umbrellas; the banana-sellers look yellow and wilted as their own wares. Men pass along, hurrying, because they are Americans, and business must go on whether it be hot or cold; but they move in a dogged jog-trot, expressive of weariness and disgust, and wipe their brows as they go, muttering anathemas under their breath on the whole summer season. Most of the men are in linen coats, some in no coats at all; all wear straw hats, and there is a great display of palm-leaf fans, waving in all degrees of energy. Here and there is seen an umbrella, but these are not frequent, for it seems to the American a strange and womanish thing to carry an umbrella except for rain; it also requires attention, and takes a man's mind off his business. Each man of all the hurrying thousands is shut up in himself, carrying his little world, which is all the world there is, about with him, seeing the other hurrying mites only "as trees walking," with no thought or note of them. Who cares about anybody else when it is so hot? Get through the day's work, and away to the wife and children in the cool by the sea-shore, or in the comfortable green suburb, where, if one must still be hot, one can at least suffer decently, and not "like a running river be,"—with apologies to the boy Chatterton.

Among all these hurrying motes in the broad, fierce stream of sunshine, one figure moves slowly, without haste. Nobody looks at anybody else, or this figure might attract some attention, even in the streets of the great city. An old man, tall and slender, with snowy hair falling in a single curl over his forehead; with brown eyes which glance birdlike here and there, seeing everything, taking in every face, every shadow of a vanishing form that hurries along and away from him; with fiddle-bow in hand, and fiddle held close and tenderly against his shoulder. De Arthenay, looking for his little girl!

Not content with scanning every face as it passes, he looks up at the houses, searching with eager eye their blank, close-shuttered walls, as if in hope of seeing through the barriers of brick and stone, and surprising the secrets that may lurk within. Now and then a house seems to take his fancy, for he stops, and still looking up at the windows, plays a tune. It is generally the same tune,—a simple, homely old air, which the street-boys can readily take up and whistle, though they do not hear it in the music-halls or on the hand-organs. A languid crowd gathers round him when he pauses thus, for street-boys know a good fiddler when they hear him; and this is a good fiddler.

When a crowd has collected, the old man turns his attention from the silent windows (they are generally silent; or if a face looks out, it is not the beloved one which is in his mind night and day, day and night) and scans the faces around him, with sad, eager eyes. Then, stopping short in his playing, he taps sharply on his fiddle, and asks in a clear voice if any one has seen or heard of a blind child, with beautiful brown hair, clear blue eyes, and the most wonderful voice in the world.

No one has heard of such a child; but one tells him of a blind negro who can play the trombone, and another knows of a blind woman who tells fortunes "equal to the best mejums;" and so on, and so on. He shakes his head with a patient look, makes his grand bow, and passes on to the next street, the next wondering crowd, the next disappointment. Sometimes he is hailed by some music-hall keeper who hears him play, and knows a good thing when he hears it, and who 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 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."

God help thee, De Arthenay! God speed and prosper thee, Rosin the Beau!

But is not another name more fitting even than the fantastic one of his adoption? Is not this Blondel, faithful, patient, undaunted, wandering by tower and town, singing his song of love and hope and undying loyalty under every window, till it shall one day fall like a breath from heaven on the ear of the prisoner, sitting in darkness and the shadow of death?



CHAPTER X.

DARKNESS.

"And how's our sweet little lady to-day? She's looking as pretty as a picture, so it's a pleasure to look at her. How are you feeling, dearie?"

It was a woman's voice that spoke, soft and wheedling, yet with a certain unpleasant twang in it. She spoke to Melody, who sat still, with folded hands, and head bowed as if in a dream.

"I am well, thank you," answered the child; and she was silent again.

The woman glanced over her shoulder at a man who had followed her into the room,—a dark man with an eager face and restless, discontented eyes; the same man who had watched Melody over the wall of the old burying-ground, and heard her sing. He had never heard her sing since, save for that little snatch of "Robin Ruff," which she had sung to the children the day when he stood and pleaded with Vesta Dale to sell her soul for her sister's comfort.

"And here's Mr. Anderson come to see you, according to custom," said the woman; "and I hope you are glad to see him, I'm sure, for he's your best friend, dearie, and he does love you so; it would be quite surprising, if you weren't the sweet lamb you are, sitting there like a flower all in the dark."

She paused, and waited for a reply; but none came. The two exchanged a glance of exasperation, and the woman shook her fist at the child; but her voice was still soft and smooth as she resumed her speech.

"And you'll sing us a little song now, dearie, won't you? To think that you've been here near a week now, and I haven't heard the sound of that wonderful voice yet, only in speaking. It's sweet as an angel's then, to be sure; but dear me! if you knew what Mr. Anderson has told me about his hearing you sing that day! Such a particular gentleman as he is, too, anybody would tell you! Why, I've seen girls with voices as they thought the wonder of the world, and their friends with them, and Mr. Anderson would no more listen to them than the dirt under his feet; no, indeed, he wouldn't. And you that he thinks so much of! why, it makes me feel real bad to see you not take that comfort in him as you might. Why, he wants to be a father to you, dearie. He hasn't got any little girl of his own, and he will give you everything that's nice, that he will, just as soon as you begin to get a little fond of him, and realize all he's doing for you. Why, most young ladies would give their two eyes for your chance, I can tell you."

She was growing angry in spite of herself, and the man Anderson pulled her aside.

"It's no use," he said. "We shall just have to wait. You know, my dear," he continued, addressing the child, "you know that you will never see your aunts again unless you do sing. You sense that, do you?"

No reply. Melody shivered a little, then drew herself together and was still,—the stillest figure that ever breathed and lived. Anderson clenched his hands and fairly trembled with rage and with the effort to conceal it. He must not frighten the child too much. He could not punish her, hurt her in any way; for any shock might injure the precious voice which was to make his fortune. He was no fool, this man. He had some knowledge, more ambition. He had been unsuccessful on the whole, had been disappointed in several ventures; now he had found a treasure, a veritable gold-mine, and-he could not work it! Could anything be more exasperating? This child, whose voice could rouse a whole city—a city! could rouse the world to rapture, absolutely refused to sing a note! He had tried cajolery, pathos, threats; he had called together a chosen company of critics to hear the future Catalani, and had been forced to send them home empty, having heard no note of the marvellous voice! The child would not sing, she would not even speak, save in the briefest possible fashion, little beyond "yes" and "no."

What was a poor impresario to do? He longed to grasp her by the shoulders and shake the voice out of her; his hands fairly itched to get hold of the obstinate little piece of humanity, who, in her childishness, her helplessness, her blindness, thus defied him, and set all his cherished plans at nought.

And yet he would not have shaken her probably, even had he dared to do so. He was not a violent man, nor a wholly bad one. He could steal a child, and convince himself that it was for the child's good as well as his own; but he could not hurt a child. He had once had a little girl of his own; it was quite true that he had intended to play a father's part to Melody, if she would only have behaved herself. In the grand drama of success that he had arranged so carefully, it was a most charming role that he had laid out for himself. Anderson the benefactor, Anderson the discoverer, the adopted father of the prodigy, the patron of music. Crowds hailing him with rapturous gratitude; the wonder-child kneeling and presenting him with a laurel crown, which had been thrown to her, but which she rightly felt to be his due, who had given her all, and brought her from darkness into light! Instead of this, what part was this he was really playing? Anderson the kidnapper; Anderson the villain, the ruffian, the invader of peaceful homes, the bogy to scare naughty children with. He did not say all this to himself, perhaps, because he was not, save when carried away by professional enthusiasm, an imaginative man; but he felt thoroughly uncomfortable, and, above all, absolutely at sea, not knowing which way to turn. As he stood thus, irresolute, the woman by his side eying him furtively from time to time, Melody turned her face toward him and spoke.

"If you will take me home," she said, "I will sing to you. I will sing all day, if you like. But here I will never sing. It would not be possible for you to make me do it, so why do you try? You made a mistake, that is all."

"Oh, that's all, is it?" repeated Anderson.

"Yes, truly," the child went on. "Perhaps you do not mean to be unkind,—Mrs. Brown says you do not; but then why are you unkind, and why will you not take me home?"

"It is for your own good, child," repeated Anderson, doggedly. "You know that well enough. I have told you how it will all be, a hundred times. You were not meant for a little village, and a few dull old people; you are for the world, the great world of wealth and fashion and power. If you were not either a fool or—or—I don't know what, you would see the matter as it really is. Mrs. Brown is right: most girls would give their eyes, and their ears too, for such a chance as you have. You are only a child, and a very foolish child; and you don't know what is good for you. Some day you will be thankful to me for making you sing."

Melody smiled, and her smile said much, for Anderson turned red, and clenched his hands fiercely.

"You belong to the world, I tell you!" he cried again. "The world has a right to you."

"To the world?" the child repeated softly. "Yes, it is true; I do belong to the world,—to God's world of beauty, to the woods and fields, the flowers and grasses, and to the people who love me. When the birds sing to me I can answer them, and they know that my song is as sweet as their own. The brook tells me its story, and I tell it again, and every ripple sounds in my voice; and I know that I please the brook, and all who hear me,—little beasts, and flowers that nod on their stems to hear, and trees that bend down to touch me, and tell me by their touch that they are well pleased. And children love to hear me sing, and I can fill their little hearts with joy. I sing to sick people, and they are easier of their pain, and perhaps they may sleep, when they have not been able to sleep for long nights. This is my life, my work. I am God's child; and do you think I do not know the work my Father has given me to do?" With a sudden movement she stepped forward, and laid her hand lightly on the man's breast. "You are God's child, too!" she said, in a low voice. "Are you doing His work now?"

There was silence in the room. Anderson was as if spellbound, his eyes fixed on the child, who stood like a youthful prophetess, her head thrown back, her beautiful face full of solemn light, her arm raised in awful appeal. The woman threw her apron over her head and began to cry. The man moistened his lips twice or thrice, trying to speak, but no words came. At length he made a sign of despair to his accomplice; moved back from that questioning, warning hand, whose light touch seemed to burn through and through him,—moved away, groping for the door, his eyes still fixed on the child's face; stole out finally, as a thief steals, and closed the door softly behind him.

Melody stood still, looking up to heaven. A great peace filled her heart, which had been so torn and tortured these many days past, ever since the dreadful moment when she had been forced away from her home, from her life, and brought into bondage and the shadow of death. She had thought till to-day that she should die. Not that she was deserted, not that God had forgotten,—oh, no; but that He did not need her any longer here, that she had not been worthy of the work she had thought to be hers, and that now she was to be taken elsewhere to some other task. She was only a child; her life was strong in every limb; but God could not mean her to live here, in this way,—that would not be merciful, and His property was always to have mercy. So death would come,—death as a friend, just as Auntie Joy had always described him; and she would go hence, led by her Father's hand.

But now, what change was coming over her? The air seemed lighter, clearer, since Anderson had left the room. A new hope entered her heart, coming she knew not whence, filling it with pulses and waves of joy. She thought of her home; and it seemed to grow nearer, more distinct, at every moment. She saw (as blind people see) the face of Rejoice Dale, beaming with joy and peace; she felt the strong clasp of Miss Vesta's hand. She smelt the lilacs, the white lilacs beneath which she loved to sit and sing. She heard—oh, God! what did she hear? What sound was this in her ears? Was it still the dream, the lovely dream of home, or was a real sound thrilling in her ears, beating in her heart, filling the whole world with the voice of hope,—of hope fulfilled, of life and love?

"I've travelled this country all over, And now to the next I must go; But I know that good quarters await me, And a welcome to Rosin the Beau."

Oh, Father of mercy! never doubted, always near in sorrow and in joy! oh, holy angels, who have held my hands and lifted me up, lest I dash my foot against a stone! A welcome,—oh, on my knees, in humble thanksgiving, in endless love and praise,—a welcome to Rosin the Beau!

* * * * *

An hour later Mrs. Brown stood before her employer, flushed and disordered, making her defence.

"I couldn't have helped it, not if I had died for it, Mr. Anderson. You couldn't have helped it yourself, if you had been there. When she heard that fiddle, the child dropped on her knees as if she had been shot, and I thought she was going to faint. But the next minute she was at the window, and such a cry as she gave! the sound of it is in my bones yet, and will be till I die."

She paused, and wiped her fiery face, for she had run bareheaded through the blazing streets.

"Then he came in,—the old man. He was plain dressed, but he came in like a king to his throne; and the child drifted into his arms like a flake of snow, and there she lay. Mr. Anderson, when he held her there on his breast, and turned and looked at me, with his eyes like two black coals, all power was taken from me, and I couldn't have moved if it had been to save my own life. He pointed at me with his fiddle-bow, but it might have been a sword for all the difference I knew; anyway, his voice went through and through me like something sharp and bright. 'You cannot move,' he said; 'you have no power to move hand or foot till I have taken my child away. I bid you be still!' Mr. Anderson, sir, I had no power! I stood still, and they went away. They seemed to melt away together,—he with his arm round her waist, holding her up like; and she with her face turned up to his, and a look like heaven, if I ever hope to see heaven. The next minute they was gone, and still I hadn't never moved. And now I've come to tell you, sir," cried Mrs. Brown, smoothing down her ruffled hair in great agitation;" and to tell you something else too, as I would burst if I didn't. I am glad he has got her! If I was to lose my place fifty times over, as you've always been good pay and a kind gentleman too, still I say it, I'm glad he has got her. She wasn't of your kind, sir, nor of mine neither. And—and I've never been a professor," cried the woman, with her apron at her eyes, "but I hope I know an angel when I see one, and I mean to be a better woman from this day, so I do. And she asked God to bless me, Mr. Anderson, she did, as she went away, because I meant to be kind to her; and I did mean it, the blessed creature! And she said good-by to you too, sir; and she knew you thought it was for her good, only you didn't know what God meant. And I'm so glad, I'm so glad!"

She stopped short, more surprised than she had ever been in her life; for Edward Anderson was shaking her hand violently, and telling her that she was a good woman, a very good woman indeed, and that he thought the better of her, and had been thinking for some time of raising her salary.



CHAPTER XI.

LIGHT.

I love the morning light,—the freshness, the pearls and diamonds, the fairy linen spread on the grass to bleach (there be those who call it spider-web, but to such I speak not), the silver fog curling up from river and valley. I love it so much that I am loath to confess that sometimes the evening light is even more beautiful. Yet is there a softness that comes with the close of day, a glorification of common things, a drawing of purple shadows over all that is rough or unsightly, which makes the early evening perhaps the most perfect time of all the perfect hours.

It was such an hour that now brooded over the little village, when the people came out from their houses to watch for Melody's coming. It is a pretty little village at all times, very small and straggling, but lovely with flowers and vines and dear, homely old houses, which have not found out that they are again in the fashion out of which they were driven many years ago, but still hold themselves humbly, with a respect for the brick and stucco of which they have heard from time to time. It is always pretty, I say, but this evening it had received some fresh baptism of beauty, as if the Day knew what was coming, and had pranked herself in her very best for the festival. The sunbeams slanted down the straggling, grass-grown road, and straightway it became an avenue of wonder, with gold-dust under foot, flecked here and there with emerald. The elms met over head in triumphal arches; the creepers on the low houses hung out wonderful scarfs and banners of welcome, which swung gold and purple in the joyous light. And as the people came out of their houses, now that the time was drawing near, lo! the light was on their faces too; and the plain New England men and women, in their prints and jeans, shone like the figures in a Venetian picture, and were all a-glitter with gold and precious stones for once in their lives, though they knew it not.

But not all of this light came from the setting sun; on every face was the glow of a great joy, and every voice was soft with happiness, and the laughter was all a-tremble with the tears that were so near it. They were talking about the child who was coming back to them, whom they had mourned as lost. They were telling of her gracious words and ways, so different from anything else they had known,—her smiles, and the way she held her head when she sang; and the way she found things out, without ever any one telling her. Wonderful, was it not? Why, one dared not have ugly thoughts in her presence; or if they came, one tried to hide them away, deep down, so that Melody should not see them with her blind eyes. Do you remember how Joel Pottle took too much one day (nobody knows to this day where he got it, and his folks all temperance people), and how he stood out in the road and swore at the folks coming out of meeting, and how Melody came along and took him by the hand, and led him away down by the brook, and never left him till he was a sober man again? And every one knew Joel had never touched a drop of liquor from that day on.

Again, could they ever forget how she saved the baby,—Jane Pegrum's baby,—that had been forgotten by its frantic mother in the burning house? They shuddered as they recalled the scene: the writhing, hissing flames, the charred rafters threatening every moment to fall; and the blind child walking calmly along the one safe beam, unmoved above the pit of fire which none of them could bear to look on, catching the baby from its cradle ("and it all of a smoulder, just ready to burst out in another minute") and bringing it safe to the woman who lay fainting on the grass below! Vesta had never forgiven them for that, for letting the child go: she was away at the time, and when she came back and found Melody's eyebrows all singed off, it did seem as though the village wouldn't hold her, didn't it? And Doctor was just as bad. But, there! they couldn't have held her back, once she knew the child was there; and Rejoice was purely thankful. Melody seemed to favor Rejoice, almost as if she might be her own child. Vesta had more of this world in her, sure enough.

Isn't it about time for them to be coming? Doctor won't waste time on the road, you may be sure. Dreadful crusty he was this morning, if any one tried to speak to him. Miss Meechin came along just as he was harnessing up, and asked if he couldn't give her something to ease up her sciatica a little mite, and what do you think he said? "Take it to the Guinea Coast and drown it!" Not another word could she get out of him. Now, that's no way to talk to a patient. But Doctor hasn't been himself since Melody was stole; anybody could see that with his mouth. Look at how he's treated that man with the operation, that kept him from going to find the child himself! He never said a word to him, they say, and tended him as careful as a woman, every day since he got hurt; but just as soon as he got through with him, he'd go out in the yard, they say, and swear at the pump, till it would turn your blood cold to hear him. It's gospel truth, for I had it from the nurse, and she said it chilled her marrow. Yes, a violent man, Doctor always was; and, too, he was dreadful put out at the way the man got hurt,— reaching out of his buggy to slat his neighbor's cow, just because he had a spite against him. Seemed trifling, some thought, but he's like to pay for it. Did you hear the sound of wheels?

Look at Alice and Alfred, over there with the baby; bound to have the first sight of them, aren't they, standing on the wall like that? They are as happy as two birds, ever since they made up that time. Yes, Melody's doing too, that was. She didn't know it; but she doesn't know the tenth of what she does. Just the sight of her coming along the road—hark! surely I heard the click of the doctor's mare. Does seem hard to wait, doesn't it? But Rejoice,—what do you suppose it is for Rejoice? only she's used to it, as you may say.

Yes, Rejoice is used to waiting, surely; what else is her life? In the little white cottage now, Mandy Loomis, in a fever of excitement, is running from door to window, flapping out flies with her apron, opening the oven door, fidgeting here and there like a distracted creature; but in the quiet room, where Rejoice lies with folded hands, all is peace, brooding peace and calm and blessedness. The sick woman does not even turn her head on the pillow; you would think she slept, if she did not now and again raise the soft brown eyes,—the most patient eyes in the world,—and turn them toward the window. Yes, Rejoice is used to waiting; yet it is she who first catches the far-off sound of wheels, the faint click of the brown mare's hoofs. With her bodily ears she hears it, though so still is she one might think the poor withered body deserted, and the joyous soul away on the road, hovering round the returning travellers as they make their triumphal entry.

For all can see them now. First the brown mare's head, with sharp ears pricked, coming round the bend; then a gleam of white, a vision of waving hair, a light form bending forward. Melody! Melody has come back to us! They shout and laugh and cry, these quiet people. Alfred and Alice his wife have run forward, and are caressing the brown mare with tears of joy, holding the baby up for Melody to feel and kiss, because it has grown so wonderfully in this week of her absence. Mrs. Penny is weeping down behind the hedge; Mandy Loomis is hurling 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. What is prayer, if this be not it? The evening light streams down, warm, airy gold; the clouds press near in pomp of crimson and purple. The sick woman holds her peace, and sees the angels of God ascending and descending, ministering to her. Put off thy shoes from thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.

"Jubilate, jubilate! Jubilate, amen!"

THE END.