Bill Moody, talking the stranger over
down at the post-office one day; "but I don't b'lieve he's got much
ambition. Jess does his work and takes his wages, and then gits his
fiddle out and plays."

"Tell ye what," said Hose Ransom, who set up for the village
philosopher, "he ain't got no 'magination. That's what makes men
slack. He don't know what it means to rise in the world; don't care fer
anythin' ez much ez he does fer his music. He's jess like a bird; let
him have 'nough to eat and a chance to sing, and he's all right. What's
he 'magine about a house of his own, and a barn, and sich things?"

Hosea's illustration was suggested by his own experience. He had just
put the profits of his last summer's guiding into a new barn, and his
imagination was already at work planning an addition to his house in the
shape of a kitchen L.

But in spite of his tone of contempt, he had a kindly feeling for the
unambitious fiddler. Indeed, this was the attitude of pretty much every
one in the community. A few men of the rougher sort had made fun of him
at first, and there had been one or two attempts at rude handling. But
Jacques was determined to take no offence; and he was so good-humoured,
so obliging, so pleasant in his way of whistling and singing about his
work, that all unfriendliness soon died out.

He had literally played his way into the affections of the village. The
winter seemed to pass more swiftly and merrily than it had done before
the violin was there. He was always ready to bring it out, and draw all
kinds of music from its strings, as long as any one wanted to listen or
to dance.

It made no difference whether there was a roomful of listeners, or only
a couple, Fiddlin' Jack was just as glad to play. With a little, quiet
audience, he loved to try the quaint, plaintive airs of the old French
songs--"A la Claire Fontaine," "Un Canadien Errant," and "Isabeau
s'y Promene"--and bits of simple melody from the great composers, and
familiar Scotch and English ballads--things that he had picked up heaven
knows where, and into which he put a world of meaning, sad and sweet.

He was at his best in this vein when he was alone with Serena in the
kitchen--she with a piece of sewing in her lap, sitting beside the lamp;
he in the corner by the stove, with the brown violin tucked under his
chin, wandering on from one air to another, and perfectly content if
she looked up now and then from her work and told him that she liked