safe, well-tested personalities were enlivening the tea in this
way, the sound of the fiddle approaching within a distance at which it
could be heard distinctly, made the young people look at each other
with sympathetic impatience for the end of the meal.

"Why, there's Solomon in the hall," said the Squire, "and playing my
fav'rite tune, _I_ believe--"The flaxen-headed ploughboy"--he's for
giving us a hint as we aren't enough in a hurry to hear him play.
Bob," he called out to his third long-legged son, who was at the other
end of the room, "open the door, and tell Solomon to come in. He shall
give us a tune here."

Bob obeyed, and Solomon walked in, fiddling as he walked, for he would
on no account break off in the middle of a tune.

"Here, Solomon," said the Squire, with loud patronage. "Round here, my
man. Ah, I knew it was "The flaxen-headed ploughboy": there's no finer
tune."

Solomon Macey, a small hale old man with an abundant crop of long white
hair reaching nearly to his shoulders, advanced to the indicated spot,
bowing reverently while he fiddled, as much as to say that he respected
the company, though he respected the key-note more. As soon as he had
repeated the tune and lowered his fiddle, he bowed again to the Squire
and the rector, and said, "I hope I see your honour and your reverence
well, and wishing you health and long life and a happy New Year. And
wishing the same to you, Mr. Lammeter, sir; and to the other gentlemen,
and the madams, and the young lasses."

As Solomon uttered the last words, he bowed in all directions
solicitously, lest he should be wanting in due respect. But thereupon
he immediately began to prelude, and fell into the tune which he knew
would be taken as a special compliment by Mr. Lammeter.

"Thank ye, Solomon, thank ye," said Mr. Lammeter when the fiddle paused
again. "That's "Over the hills and far away", that is. My father used
to say to me, whenever we heard that tune, "Ah, lad, _I_ come from over
the hills and far away." There's a many tunes I don't make head or
tail of; but that speaks to me like the blackbird's whistle. I suppose
it's the name: there's a deal in the name of a tune."

But Solomon was already impatient to prelude again, and presently broke
with much spirit into "Sir Roger de Coverley", at which there was a
sound of chairs pushed back, and laughing voices.

"Aye, aye, Solomon, we know what that means," said the Squire, rising.
"It's time