Well, in the end of June, just after the furniture had come for the
house with the curved roof, Serena was married to Hose Ransom. He was a
young widower without children, and altogether the best fellow, as well
as the most prosperous, in the settlement. His house stood up on the
hill, across the road from the lot which Jacques had bought. It was
painted white, and it had a narrow front porch, with a scroll-saw fringe
around the edge of it; and there was a little garden fenced in with
white palings, in which Sweet Williams and pansies and blue lupines and
pink bleeding-hearts were planted.

The wedding was at the Sportsmen's Retreat, and Jacques was there, of
course. There was nothing of the disconsolate lover about him. The noun
he might have confessed to, in a confidential moment of intercourse with
his violin; but the adjective was not in his line.

The strongest impulse in his nature was to be a giver of entertaininent,
a source of joy in others, a recognized element of delight in the
little world where he moved. He had the artistic temperament in its
most primitive and naive form. Nothing pleased him so much as the act of
pleasing. Music was the means which Nature had given him to fulfil
this desire. He played, as you might say, out of a certain kind of
selfishness, because he enjoyed making other people happy. He was
selfish enough, in his way, to want the pleasure of making everybody
feel the same delight that he felt in the clear tones, the merry
cadences, the tender and caressing flow of his violin. That was
consolation. That was power. That was success.

And especially was he selfish enough to want to feel his ability to give
Serena a pleasure at her wedding--a pleasure that nobody else could give
her. When she asked him to play, he consented gladly. Never had he drawn
the bow across the strings with a more magical touch. The wedding guests
danced as if they were enchanted. The big bridegroom came up and clapped
him on the back, with the nearest approach to a gesture of affection
that backwoods etiquette allows between men.

"Jack, you're the boss fiddler o' this hull county. Have a drink now? I
guess you 're mighty dry."

"MERCI, NON," said Jacques. "I drink only de museek dis night. Eef I
drink two t'ings, I get dronk."

In between the dances, and while the supper was going on, he played
quieter tunes--ballads and songs that he knew Serena liked. After supper
came the final reel; and when that was w