knees with both feet, hand-massaging every one of the keys up,
down, and crossways, until the ancient fossil fairly rattled itself
loose with the joy of being alive once more, was altogether the most
astounding miracle he has ever had to record. And Pestler with his
violin was not far behind.

Everything had now broken loose.

At the first note, up jumped Kitty, caught John around the neck, and
went whirling around the room. At the second note, up jumped Codman,
made a dive for Polly, missed her in the mix-up and, grabbing Mrs.
Digwell instead, went sailing down the room as if he had done nothing
else all his life. At the third note, away went Sanderson and Bundleton,
Heffern, everybody but the two castaways and Tim Kelsey, who beat juba
on their knees, old Sam Dogger playing a tattoo all by himself with two
knife-handles and a plate. Some danced with their own wives; some
with anybody's wife or daughter or child--a grand hullabaloo, down the
middle, across, back, and up again, until everybody was exhausted
and fell in a heap into Felix's Spanish chairs, or on his Venetian
wedding-chests, or wherever else they could find resting-places in which
to catch their breaths.

And now comes the crowning touch of all--the last of the evening's
surprises, and one remembered the longest because of its simplicity and
its beauty!

When everybody was resting, out stepped Felix, the light of the overhead
candles falling on his pale, thoughtful face, white shirt-front, and
faultless suit of black which fitted his well-knit, handsome frame like
a glove, and with him the Grande Duchesse Masie de Kling, the child
bowing and smiling as she passed, the wide leghorn hat shading her
face from the light of the lanterns above, her long train caught,
woman-fashion, over her arm. Then, with a low word to the pin-headed
young man, followed by a downward wave of his palm to denote the time,
and the child's fingers firm in his own, Felix led her through an
old-fashioned, stately minuet, telling her in an undertone just what
steps to take.

It was Sunday morning before the merry party broke up and streamed out
through Kling's lower shop, and so on into the street. Everybody had had
the time of their lives. Such remarks as "Would ye have believed it
of Otto?" or, "Wasn't Masie the sweetest thing ye ever saw?" or, "Just
think of Mr. O'Day fixing up that old junk room the way he did--ye can't
beat him nowheres!" or, "Oh, I tell ye, Otto struck i