e Ransom, "did ye take note how he hung on to that pack
o' his'n all the time? Wouldn't let go on it. Wonder what 't wuz? Seemed
kinder holler 'n light, fer all 'twuz so big an' wropped up in lots o'
coverin's."

"What's the use of wonderin'?" said one of the younger boys; "find out
later on. Now's the time fer dancin'. Whoop 'er up!"

So the sound of revelry swept on again in full flood. The men and maids
went careering up and down the room. Serena's willing fingers laboured
patiently over the yellow keys of the reluctant melodion. But the
ancient instrument was weakening under the strain; the bellows creaked;
the notes grew more and more asthmatic.

"Hold the Fort" was the tune, "Money Musk" was the dance; and it was a
preposterously bad fit. The figure was tangled up like a fishing-line
after trolling all day without a swivel. The dancers were doing their
best, determined to be happy, as cheerful as possible, but all out of
time. The organ was whirring and gasping and groaning for breath.

Suddenly a new music filled the room.

The right tune--the real old joyful "Money Musk," played jubilantly,
triumphantly, irresistibly--on a fiddle!

The melodion gave one final gasp of surprise and was dumb.

Every one looked up. There, in the parlour door, stood the stranger,
with his coat off, his violin hugged close under his chin, his right arm
making the bow fly over the strings, his black eyes sparkling, and his
stockinged feet marking time to the tune.

"DANSEZ! DANSEZ," he cried, "EN AVANT! Don' spik'. Don' res'! Ah'll
goin' play de feedle fo' yo' jess moch yo' lak', eef yo' h'only DANSE!"

The music gushed from the bow like water from the rock when Moses
touched it. Tune followed tune with endless fluency and variety--polkas,
galops, reels, jigs, quadrilles; fragments of airs from many lands--"The
Fisher's Hornpipe," "Charlie is my Darling," "Marianne s'en va-t-au
Moulin," "Petit Jean," "Jordan is a Hard Road to Trabbel," woven
together after the strangest fashion and set to the liveliest cadence.

It was a magical performance. No one could withstand it. They all danced
together, like the leaves on the shivering poplars when the wind blows
through them. The gentle Serena was swept away from her stool at the
organ as if she were a little canoe drawn into the rapids, and Bill
Moody stepped high and cut pigeon-wings that had been forgotten for
a generation. It was long after midnight when the dancers paused,
breat