* This is a definition of the Heaven-born fiddler by Pate Bailey, a gypsy tinker and celestial violinist. Being asked for a test of proficiency on that instrument, he replied that no man is a fiddler "till he can gar himsel greet wi a feddle."

"Great Orpheus played so well he moved Old Nick, But these move nothing but their fiddlestick."*

* See how unjust satire is! Don't they move their finger- nails?

But he could make you laugh and crow with his fiddle, and could make you jump up, aetat. 60, and snap your fingers at old age and propriety, and propose a jig to two bishops and one master of the rolls, and, they declining, pity them without a shade of anger, and subst.i.tute three chairs; then sit unabashed and smiling at the past; and the next minute he could make you cry, or near it. In a word he could evoke the soul of that wonderful wooden sh.e.l.l, and bid it discourse with the souls and hearts of his hearers.

Meantime Lucy Fountain's face would have interested a subtle student of her s.e.x.

Her sensibility to music was great, and the feeling strains stole into her nature, and stirred the treasures of the deep to the surface. Eve, a keen if not a profound observer, was struck by the rising beauty of this countenance, over which so many moods chased one another. She said to herself: "Well, David is right, after all; she is a lovely girl. Her features are nothing out of the way. Her nose is neither one thing nor the other, but her expression is beautiful. None of your wooden faces for me. And, dear heart, how her neck rises! La! how her color comes and goes! Well, I do love the fiddle myself dearly; and now, if her eyes are not br.i.m.m.i.n.g; I could kiss her! La! David," cried she, bursting the bounds of silence, "that is enough of the tune the old cow died of; take and play something to keep our hearts up--do."

Eve's good-humor and mirth were restored by David's success, and now nothing would serve her turn but a duet, pianoforte and violin. Miss Fountain objected, "Why spoil the violin?" David objected too, "I had hoped to hear the piano-forte, and how can I with a fiddle sounding under my chin?" Eve overruled both peremptorily.

"Well, Miss Dodd, what shall we select? But it does not matter; I feel sure Mr. Dodd can play _a livre ouvert."_

"Not he," said Eve, hypocritically, being secretly convinced he could.

"Can you play 'a leevre ouvert,' David?"

"Who is it by, Miss Fountain?" Lucy never moved a muscle.

After a rummage a duet was found that looked promising, and the performance began. In the middle David stopped.

"Ha! ha! David's broke down," shrieked Eve, concealing her uneasiness under fict.i.tious gayety. "I thought he would."

"I beg your pardon," explained David to Miss Fountain, "but you are out of time."

"Am I?" said Lucy, composedly.

"And have been, more or less, all through."

"David, you forget yourself."

"No, no; set me right, by all means, Mr. Dodd. I am not a hardened offender."

"Is it not just possible the violin may be the instrument that is out of time?" suggested Talboys, insidiously.

"No," said David, simply, "I was right enough."

"Let us try again, Mr. Dodd. Play me a few bars first in exact time.

Thank you. Now."

"All went merry as a marriage bell" for a page and a half; then David, fiddling away, cried out, "You are getting too fast; 'ri tum tiddy, iddy ri tum ti;" then, by stamping and accenting very strongly, he kept the piano from overflowing its bounds. The piece ended. Eve rubbed her hands. "Now you'll catch it, Mr. David!"

"I am afraid I gave you a great deal of trouble, Mr. Dodd."

_"En revanche,_ you gave us a great deal of pleasure," put in Mr.

Talboys.

Lucy turned her head and smiled graciously. "But piano-forte players play so much by themselves, they really forget the awful importance of time."

"I profit by your confession that they do sometimes play by themselves," said Mr. Talboys. "Be merciful, and let us hear you by yourself."' Eve turned as red as fire.

David backed the request sincerely.

Lucy played a piece composed expressly for the piano by a pianist of the day. David sat on her left hand and watched intently how she did it.

When it was over, Talboys did a bit of rapture; Eve another.

"That is playing."

"I would not have believed it if I had not seen it done," said David.

"Eve, you should have seen her beautiful fingers thread in and out among the keys; it was like white fire dancing; and as for her hand, it is not troubled with joints like ours, I should say."

"The music, Mr. Dodd," said Lucy, severely.

"Oh, the music! Well, I could hardly take on me to say. You see I heard it by the eye, and that was all in its favor; but I should say the music wasn't worth a b.u.t.ton."

"David!"

"How you run off with one's words, Eve! I mean, played by anybody but her. Why, what was it, when you come to think? Up and down the gamut, and then down and up. No more sense in it than _a b c_--a scramble to the main-masthead for nothing, and back to no good. I'd as lief see you play on the table, Miss Fountain."

"Poor Moscheles!" said Lucy, dryly.

"Revenge is in your power," said Talboys; "play no more; punish us all for this one heretic."

Lucy reflected a moment; she then took from the canterbury a thick old book. "This was my mother's. Her taste was pure in music, as in everything. I shall be sorry if you do not _all_ like this,"

added she, softly.

It was an old ma.s.s; full, magnificent chords in long succession, strung together on a clear but delicate melody. She played it to perfection: her lovely hands seemed to grasp the chords. No fumbling in the base; no gelatinizing in the treble. Her touch, firm and masterly, yet feminine, evoked the soul of her instrument, as David had of his, and she thought of her mother as she played. These were those golden strains from which all mortal dross seems purged. Hearing them so played, you could not realize that he who writ them had ever eaten, drunk, smoked, snuffed, and hated the composer next door. She who played them felt their majesty and purity. She lifted her beaming eye to heaven as she played, and the color receded from her cheek; and when her enchantment ended she was silent, and all were silent, and their ears ached for the departed charm.

Then she looked round a mute inquiry.

Talboys applauded loudly.

But the tear stood in David's eye, and he said nothing.

"Well, David," said Eve, reproachfully, "I'm sure if that does not please you--"

"Please me," cried David, a little fretfully; "more shame for me if it does not. Please is not the word. It is angel music, I call it--ah!"

"Well, you need not break your heart for that: he is going to cry--ha!

ha!"

"I'm no such thing," cried David, indignantly, and blew his nose--promptly, with a vague air of explanation and defiance.

But why the male of my species blows its nose to hide its sensibility a deeper than I must decide.

Mr. Talboys for some time had not been at his ease. He had been playing too, and an instrument he hated--second fiddle. He rose and joined Mr. Fountain, who was sitting half awake on a distant sofa.