e at their brightest. They gleamed
and glowed, flashed and scintillated, like jewels fresh from the case.
Their fires were many-colored--orange, yellow, and red; and here and
there a great diamond, fastened into the zone of night, sent out its
intense, colorless brilliancy. Through all the air silence reigned. The
winds had died away, and the waters had settled to repose. No gurgle
along the shore: no splash against the great logs that made the wharf;
no bird of night calling to its mate. Outside all was still. Nature had
drawn the curtains around her couch, and, screened from sight, lay in
profound repose.

Within, all was light, and bustle, and gayety. From every window lights
streamed and flashed. The large parlors were alive with moving forms.
The piano, whose white keys were swept by whiter hands, tinkled and rang
in liveliest measure. The dance was at its height; and the very floor
seemed vibrant with the pressure of lively feet. The dancers advanced,
retired, wheeled and swayed in easy circles, swept up and down, and
across the floor in graceful lines.

Amid the happy scene the Old Trapper stood, his stalwart frame erect as
in his prime; while his great, strong face fairly beamed in benediction
upon the dancers. For his nature had within its depths that fine
capacity which enabled it to receive the brightness of surrounding
happiness and reflect it again.

It was a study to watch his face and mark the passage of changeful
moods; surprise, delight, and broad, warm-hearted humor, as they came to
and played across the responsive features. The man of the woods, of the
lonely shore, and of silence, seemed perfectly at home amid the noise
and commotion of human merry-making.

At last the music died away. The dancers checked their feet. The lady
who had been playing the piano rose wearily from the instrument and
joined a group of friends. The music was not adequate. The notes were
too sharp; too isolate; they did not flow together. There was no sweep
and swing, nor suavity of connected progress in the strains. The
instrument could not lift the dancers up and swing them onward through
the mazy motions.

"I tell ye, Henry," said the Old Trapper, as he turned to Herbert who
was standing by his side, "the pianner isn't the thing to dance by, for
sartin. It tinkles and chippers too much; it rattles and clicks. It
don't git hold of the feelin's, Henry;--it don't start the blood in yer
veins, nor set yer skin tinglin', n