tanding of peace and harmony, the Hautvilles came together for
a concert in the great living-room. Not one had said to another,
"This is Madelon's last night at home, and we have been wroth with
her; let us bury the hatchet, and raise our voices with one accord in
our old songs;" but one impulse had seemed to move them all, as one
wind moves the forest trees who are kin to one another, and they were
all together at twilight, even Eugene and his bride.

Burr Gordon came also, but he and Madelon did not sit apart that
evening. The weather was cool, even for late September, and an early
frost was threatened. A great fire blazed on the hearth. Burr and
Dorothy, on the settle in the chimney-corner, listened to the
Hautville chorus, and Burr looked always at Madelon and Dorothy at
Eugene. The Hautvilles stood together before the fire, old David with
his bass-viol at his side, like the wife of his bosom; Louis holding
his violin on his shoulder, like a child, pressing his dark cheek
against it, and Eugene and Abner and Richard and Madelon uplifting
their voices in the old songs and fugues.

The doors and windows were shut. Nobody heard nor saw Lot Gordon when
he crept like a fox round the house, and came under a window and
rested his chin on the sill and remained there looking at Madelon.
She wore that night a soft gown of crimson wool, which clung about
her limbs and her bosom, and showed her bare throat swelling with
song into new curves which were indeed those of music itself. Lot, as
he looked at her, saw her with the full meaning of her beauty as
never Burr could, and as she could never see herself, for there is no
looking-glass on earth like a vain love when it rises above the
slight of its own desire. Greater praise than she would ever know
again in her whole life went up for Madelon outside that window, as
she sang, but she neither knew it nor missed anything when Lot went
away.

At ten o'clock the concert ceased. Lot slunk away noiselessly, and
soon Eugene and Dorothy went home, and Burr, lingering for a
good-night kiss or two in the door.

Madelon set bread to rise that night, and fulfilled her little round
of nightly tasks for the last time. Her father and brothers went to
bed and left her there--all but Richard. He remained in a corner of
the settle, his slim length flung out carelessly, his head tipped
back as if he were asleep; but his black eyes flashed bright under
their lids at his sister whenever she did