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Title: Daddy Joe's fiddle

Author: Faith Bickford

Illustrator: Edith Francis Foster

Release date: November 14, 2023 [eBook #72132]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: H. M. Caldwell Co

Credits: Steve Mattern, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DADDY JOE'S FIDDLE ***





DADDY JOE’S FIDDLE

[Illustration: “CHEE’S FACE GLOWED. SHE WOULD MAKE MUSIC FOR HERSELF”]




  _The_
  EDITHA SERIES

  DADDY JOE’S
  FIDDLE

  By
  FAITH BICKFORD

  With Illustrations by
  EDITH FRANCIS FOSTER

  [Illustration]

  H. M. CALDWELL CO.
  PUBLISHERS
  NEW YORK & BOSTON




  _Copyright, 1903_
  BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY

  _All rights reserved_




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                 PAGE

  “CHEE’S FACE GLOWED. SHE WOULD MAKE MUSIC
     FOR HERSELF” (_Page 17_)                          _Frontispiece_

  “‘THIS IS A ’PORTANT MATTER. “GUESS SO” WON’T
     DO. SAY “YES,” PLEASE’”                                       32

  “‘SHALL I ASK OUR FATHER?’”                                      51

  “SHE STOOD A MOMENT IN MEDITATION, THE VIOLIN
     ALREADY UNDER HER CHIN”                                       71

  “‘I’VE SAVED YOU FROM THE GREAT WI-WILL-MECQ’”                   91

  “IT WAS AS THOUGH ALL THE PLAINTIVE STORY OF
     A DYING RACE HAD BEEN STORED IN THAT
     LITTLE RED CASE”                                              97




DADDY JOE’S FIDDLE




CHAPTER I.


A tall clock in the hall was striking eleven. A tired, but very
wide-awake, little girl was climbing the stairs. “Land sakes, child!
Hear that? Go straight to sleep now. It’s wicked for grown folks to be
up this time of night, say nothing of young ’uns.”

The child made no reply. She had nothing to say. Older people than Chee
have _learned_ to be silent; in her case, lessons had been unnecessary.
Softly closing her chamber door, Chee blew out the little flame that
had lighted her way up the creaking stairs. Instead of going _straight
to sleep_, she sat down by the open window and began to unbraid her
long, stiff hair. Impatiently she stopped, and clenched her brown
hands. Her cheeks burned as she broke out in bitter whispers, “Oh, the
music! The music! And Aunt Mean called it wicked. It wasn’t wicked. It
was lovely. It made me want to fly right up to heaven. Guess things
that make you feel that way aren’t wicked. She couldn’t have heard it
much,” continued the child, excitedly. “She was watching the people
in front of us, and ’zaminin’ their clothes. Told Uncle Reuben how
many different kinds of stuffs were on Mrs. Snow’s bonnet; and that
beautiful, beautiful song going on all the while. It wasn’t wicked! The
choir at church isn’t wicked, and this is fifty times nicer. ’Sides--”
Her hands dropped limply to her lap. Her eyes lifted from their watch
down the road which lay white and smooth in the moonlight, the shadows
of the trees crouching dark on either side. Gazing up at the stars she
continued, tenderly, “My Daddy Joe made music on one. He called it his
‘dear old fiddle,’ he loved it so. No, it can’t be wicked.”

With the thought of Daddy Joe came a new grievance. “And I just won’t
let any one hurt it, either, I won’t. I love it, too. If Aunt Mean
knew, she’d call me wicked, but she sha’n’t know--ever. I’ll make out
I didn’t like the concert, so she can’t guess. No, I won’t, either, I
suppose that ’ud be a lie. I just won’t say anything ’tall about it,
’cause I did like it. Oh, how I liked it, though! Still, I most wish
there had been some one for me to stay with, so’s I couldn’t have gone,
’cause now I’ll wish and wish for always to hear some more.

“I wouldn’t mind so much about the girl in a white dress that sang
those songs, or the man who played on the black organ, somethin’ like
the one at Sunday school, only blacker and sweeter--it’s the fiddle I
mind. It sounded like the river when it rubs against the little stones
and tumbles over the rocks; and pretty soon it seemed just like the
stream by the mill-dam, so big and strong-like, with it’s mind all made
up. And then, by and by, it whispered. I wanted to cry then,--it was
funny when I liked it so, too,--it whispered ever and ever so low, like
the leaves talk together just before the rain falls, almost just like a
violet smell could be if it made any noise.”

The moon was rising above the trees. The beauty of the mill-stream
music was forgotten for the murmuring leaf sounds. A softer mood stole
over her heart, stilling its turmoil.

Chee laid her head against the window-frame. Lower and lower it
drooped, until it rested on the sill. The moon had disappeared when she
awoke. The road was swallowed up in blackness. The room was so dark she
could not see her little bed. She felt around, found it, and crept in.
Still, sweet, far-off strains echoed through her dreams, bringing a
smile--half-rapt, half-yearning.




CHAPTER II.


It was scarcely daylight. A small white figure was picking its
way, barefooted, across the dusty attic floor. It paused beside an
old-fashioned, hair-covered trunk. Chee’s waking thought had been of
the wonderful concert. Led by some unconscious motive, she had sought
the loft for a sight of Daddy Joe’s fiddle. Raising the lid of the
trunk, she slowly drew forth one article after another,--a scarlet
shawl with little glistening beads fastened in its fringe, a pair of
moccasins, a heavy Indian blanket wrought in gay colors, a silken
scarf. She thoughtfully stroked the rich goods of the scarf and slipped
her feet into the moccasins. “My mamma’s feet were most’s little’s
mine,” she said, in the customary whisper of her reveries.

Spying a small box, she pulled it out and opened it. Across its cover
was printed in large, uneven letters, “Mamma’s Playthings.” Lovingly
she took in her arms a much worn corn-cob dolly; only a few streaks
of paint were left for its face, only a few wisps of hair for its wig.
She handled some little acorn cups and saucers as though they had been
the frailest of china. Then, with a sigh, she remembered what had
brought her to the attic, and laid aside several rudely moulded figures
of clay. The trunk was almost emptied of its contents before she drew
forth a battered violin case, opened it, and with reverent hands lifted
out Daddy Joe’s fiddle. The bridge had slipped; instinctively she
straightened it. “My Daddy Joe’s own dear fiddle.” Closing her eyes,
she tried to remember how he had looked with the violin under his chin.
Perhaps, after all, imagination as well as memory painted the picture
before her,--her father’s tall, straight form as he drew the bow across
the strings; a fainter vision of the gaily blanketed woman by his side.

“And I was there, too,” she murmured, dreamily fingering a string of
Indians beads that hung around her neck. For some reason Aunt Mean has
never taken these away from her. With a fold of her night-robe she
began to polish the instrument. In doing so she disturbed one of its
yellow strings. A low, trembling note vibrated through the loft. Chee’s
face glowed. She would make music for herself. Why had she not thought
of that before? In her delight, the child put both her arms around the
old violin and passionately hugged it.

Taking the bow from its place, she said, “I’ll find the way they do it.
I’ll begin this very night. Nobody shall hear it, ’cause they’re way
downstairs. ’Sides, they’ll be asleep.”

Chee trembled with excitement. “I’ll hide it where I can find it in the
dark,” she continued, stealthily, “so Aunt Mean’ll never know. She’d
most kill me if she found out. I wonder why her mother named her such a
name. Maybe she guessed what she’d be like when she got old, like the
squaws used to long ago, or maybe it only just happened to fit her.”
With these meditations she carefully hid the old violin box behind a
chest.

Miss Almeana Whittaker, the while, was placidly untying her nightcap.
(Nightcaps were still useful to Miss Almeana.) She was not in the
least suspicious that her heathen niece, as she chose to call her,
was awake at this early hour. She often told her brother that children
kicked against going to bed at night, and might just as well kick about
getting up in the morning. To Chee, she would say, “Go to bed so’s to
get up.”

“Chee! Chee!” came from the stairway.

“Yes, Aunt, I’m awake.”

“What’s struck her to wake this early?” she asked, but that was the
last she thought of it.




CHAPTER III.


Oh, the excitement of the days that followed that memorable concert!
The pleasure, to Chee, of a secret all her own! The attempts and
failures to _make music_! She was not even familiar with the beginnings
of melody; if she had heard of a scale, she did not known its meaning.
So, for awhile, she tried with her little, trembling fingers, to draw
tones from the old, loosened strings.

After repeated trials and no music, she grew discouraged; even her
untrained ear found something very, very wrong. “It’s the fiddle,” she
concluded, “it’s too old. It won’t work. If I only had a new one now,
brandy-new from the store, I know I could do it. I hear lots of songs
in my head, but I can’t hear them in the fiddle.” However, the idea
that the violin was too old was soon corrected.

One Sunday morning Chee sat in church, thinking there must be baby
birds just outside a window near. The songs the old birds were singing
made her think so. It had been a bright day, but for a moment the sky
was clouded.

“What a terrible big bird Culloo[1] must be to hide the whole sun!
There, he’s gone now. I do hope he will stay away.” Chee shuddered a
little. Aunt Mean frowned at her from the end of the pew. She could not
understand her niece’s fanciful, almost superstitious ideas. It was not
strange that so sensitive a nature as Chee’s, of which the fantastic
beliefs of her mother’s race were a prominent part, could have little
in common with the blunt, doctrinal mind of Aunt Mean.

All the little sounds of the outdoor world had each a separate
individuality for Chee. The tall, stiff poplars in the churchyard,
mingling their metallic rustle with the dainty murmur of the willows,
caused Aunt Mean to think, “I guess it’s going to blow up a storm, the
trees air a-rattling.”

“The poplars are singing with the willows,” thought Chee. “Their voices
sound together just like little Sadie’s and her grandpa’s when they
stand up to sing.” Sadie was a dear, wee tot of a girl, with soft,
flying hair. She sat in the pew ahead of Miss Almeana. Her grandpa was
a tall, stiff-jointed old gentleman. He wore a very long, shiny coat,
and, no matter how warm the day, there was a turkey-red scarf around
his neck. His eyes were small, and glinted like steel. His nose was
thin and straight, and his face always pale. When he left his pew he
immediately put on a high silk hat. Nor did he consider himself in
church until he had reached his old-fashioned seat and closed its door.

Chee did not like the grandpa very well, he made her feel chilly,
she said; but often she longed to change her own stiff, jetty hair
for Sadie’s fuzzy curls. Her thoughts of the birds and the trees and
Sadie’s curls were suddenly checked by Mr. Green, the minister, who was
saying, “It is something like a violin--the older it grows, and the
oftener it is used, the more valuable it becomes.”

Chee instantly straightened herself in her seat. “Did he mean the older
it is the better it plays? How could he? How funny! Other things wear
out, why don’t fiddles? Guess he must be mistaken, ’cause ’less Daddy
Joe’s is too old, what can be the trouble? Wouldn’t the minister think
I was wicked, though, if he knew I loved it like I do? I s’pose ’course
he would, ’cause he’s Aunt Mean’s minister.”

That Aunt Mean could have a minister who did not think just as she,
never occurred to Chee.

“But if I could only make him promise not to tell, he couldn’t--ever,
’cause he’s a minister.”

A few evenings longer she struggled on. The same discordant tones were
the only result. One night the horrible sounds were more than she could
bear. With a shiver, she put away the naughty fiddle. Baffled and
broken-hearted, she crept down to her room. “What shall I do? Oh, what
shall I do?”

Worn out, she threw herself on the floor, and did something very
unusual for Chee--she began to cry. “Nobody can help me. I’m all ’lone.
Nobody’s here ’cept Our Father, I s’pose He’s here, ’cause He’s always
everywhere; but I don’t feel Him very much anywhere. Any way, He
wouldn’t make music for me. He used to for Musmi and his friends, but
perhaps He isn’t so fond of music as He used to be when they lived.”

The thought of heavenly music fascinated her. “I wish I was an angel,
I do. I’d dare ask Him then, any way. He used to do such things for
people in the stories Daddy told me. But Mr. Green only says He can
make us good and such things. I wonder,” she said, slowly, trying to
grasp a new idea, “I wonder if He couldn’t make Mr. Green think the
fiddle isn’t wicked. If He could only do that so I knew Mr. Green
wouldn’t tell Aunt Mean, I could ask him about old fiddles being as
good as new.”

She still lay on the floor. Looking up at the faintly blinking stars,
she murmured, “I don’t believe it would be wrong to ask Our Father to
try, ’cause Our Father and I know the fiddle isn’t wicked, even if Aunt
Mean and the minister don’t. I am going to ask Him, any way, this very
night.”

This resolution seemed to comfort her. Beginning to undress, she tried
to think out a prayer. Poor little Chee! She did not realize that as
she had been lying on the floor, looking up at the stars, her heart
had offered its petition. So she kept on framing a prayer that had
already been heard.

At last, kneeling by her bed, she said over the carefully chosen words,
“Our Father, who art in heaven and everywhere, I love Daddy Joe’s
fiddle very much. Better even than the real china tea-set that Cousin
Gertrude sent me, or my string of beads. But I can’t make music on it,
I’m afraid it’s too old. Mr. Green said it couldn’t be, but I’m afraid
I didn’t understand him right. I want to ask him. Can’t Thou make him
not call me wicked, nor Daddy Joe, nor ever tell Aunt Mean, ’cause
Thou knows how mad she’d be.” Chee paused. This was the prayer she had
planned, but something seemed lacking. After a moment she added, “And
if Thou do, I’ll do something for Thee sometime, only I can’t think of
anything now. Thy kingdom come. And finally save us. Amen.”




CHAPTER IV.


Next day Chee plucked up courage and said, “Aunt Mean, please may I
pick a bunch of white peonies and carry’em down to Mrs. Green?” Aunt
Mean was straightening the rag-carpet rugs on the kitchen floor. “Take
hold the end of this mat, Chee. Well, I don’t know, seems like you
wanted to be on the go the hull time. Only last week you rode over to
the ‘Corners’ with your uncle, and ’tain’t a month since you was took
to a reg’ler concert--in the town hall, too. But I don’t know but you
might as well go, an’ stop on the way an’ ask Mis’ Snow for that apern
pat’en she said she’d just’s liev I took.”

“Yes’um,” and Chee bounded away to gather her flowers.

“Beats all, that child does, still’s a mouse inside, wild’s a deer the
minute she’s out.” This had been spoken to a neighbor who had “jest
dropped in a minute.”

“Well, I s’pose it’s her Injun blood, isn’t it?” was the reply. “What a
worry she must be to you, Miss Almeana. She’s well brung up, though, if
she is half savage, I will say that.”

“Poor Joe’s runnin’ off an’ marryin’ was a dretful thing,” stated Aunt
Mean, “dretful for him, and dretful for us.”

“No doubt she was purty, and I s’pose findin’ she’d lived so long with
a white family made some difference,” the neighbor remarked. There was
a shadow of romance about her nature; there was not even that about
Aunt Mean’s.

“It was better’n though he’d found her naked in a wigwam, but ’twas bad
’nough,” dryly returned poor Joe’s sister.

“Prob’ly the greatest attraction was her voice. It must have been purty
hard on so good Meth’dist people as you an’ Reuben be, to have one of
your own kin go roun’ fiddlin’ fer shows with an Injun singin’ woman
fer his wife.”

Miss Almeana did not consider it proper to tell what an affliction this
had been to her, but with a clear conscience she told, for at least
the fiftieth time, how Reuben “took on.” After that came poor brother
Joe’s taking on; how, when his wife died, he left his profession to
wander about the world, clinging to his baby girl for comfort in his
loneliness; how, at last, he came back to the old homestead, sick--body
and heart. “He only lived a couple o’ years longer, and most o’ that
time he set round with the young’n in his arms,” went on Aunt Mean.

The neighbor had heard it all before, but she was interested.

“Reuben thinks that more’n half what killed him was heartbroke’ness.
Mebbe it was. He was allers kinder soft like, and that old fiddle of
his’n only made him wuss. I used to hate the sight on it. Think of the
waste o’ money! Sold his whole half the farm to buy it--meadow lot and
all. I tell you what, I chucked that thing out o’ sight mighty sudden
after he died.”

“Did you burn it,” asked her listener, in an awed voice, “after he had
loved it so?” Aunt Mean quailed a little.

“Laws! no, Mis’ Bowman, I ain’t quite so Spartan as that. I didn’t
have courage. But I stuck it up attic for good and all. It never’ll
come down as long as I keep house here, either.”

“Well, I must say, Miss Almeana,” interrupted her acquaintance, anxious
to appease the old lady, “you don’t work the child very hard. What does
she do, anyhow?”

“She? Oh, what I tell her to. It’s easier to do most everything
yourself than be botherin’ round with children. She’s coming on nine,
though, and I don’t want it on my conscience that I didn’t do my duty
by her--if she is a heathen--so I s’pose it’s about time I broke her
in.”

Perhaps a very faint vision of what Chee’s _breaking in_ might mean,
rose before the neighbor’s mental sight, for she said, in relenting
tones, “Oh, well, I don’t see’s you’ve any cause to hurry. She’s right
smart and will learn mighty fast when she once starts in.”

“Humph!” said Aunt Mean, and Mrs. Bowman never quite made up her mind
whether she had helped Chee’s cause or not.

While the housewives gossipped, the little girl was wending her way
to the clergyman’s house. She did not walk very fast. It was warm
and dusty, and she was busily thinking. After all, she was somewhat
loath to reach her destination. At last she came to the small, white
parsonage. Her heart seemed to pound as loudly as her hand as she
knocked upon the door. The minister’s wife herself answered the knock.

“Aunt Mean sent you these.”

“Why, thank you, Chee, thank you. And such a hot day, too. Would you
like a drink of water?” Instead of water, the lady brought a glass of
milk from the cellar. Chee sipped it slowly. It was delicious after the
long, hot walk, but she felt anxious over her errand.

“I hope he won’t think I’ve workings of a spirit like Deacon Herring
had,” she thought, a little fearfully.

After Mrs. Green had asked for her uncle and aunt, if they had green
corn yet, and if Miss Almeana’s currant-bushes would be heavy that
year, conversation flagged. Chee still sat on the edge of her chair as
though waiting for something to happen.

“What can ail the child?” wondered Mrs. Green. Finally she ventured to
ask Chee if she had come on any special errand.

“No-o, not ’zactly an errand, but--but,” she hesitated, slowly twisting
around her fingers the hem of her short gingham skirt. “Could--please
do you care if I see the minister a minute?”

Her hostess laughed. “Care? Why, no, child. I don’t keep him put away
in the dark.”

Chee’s black eyes looked frightened. “Oh, Mrs. Green!” she said,
“I didn’t mean it that way.” Dropping her voice to a whisper, she
entreated, “Don’t say anything to Aunt Mean. Please don’t tell.”

The lady’s kind heart was touched. She loved little children. Quickly
stooping to kiss Chee’s flushed forehead, she answered, “Tell that you
asked to see the minister? No, indeed.”

“Thank you.” Chee had forgotten for a moment her usual reserve, and
stealing her arms around Mrs. Green’s neck, she softly kissed her. This
was the first voluntary act of affection the child had shown toward any
one since her father’s death.

Though the minister’s wife only remarked in a gentle voice, “I think my
husband is up in the hay-mow--there is a nice breeze by the door,” she
was ever after, to Chee, the ideal of a mother hardly remembered.

While leading her to the barn, the lady asked, “Do you mind going up by
yourself?”

“Oh, no, no,” answered the little girl. It would be easier to confront
the minister alone.

Chee found him lying on the hay with a book over his eyes. She
furtively peeped at him several times from the top of the ladder.
Finally she concluded he was not asleep.

“Mr. Green,” she called. Her voice was not high and clear like most
children’s; it was strangely deep and rich. “Mr. Green,” she repeated.

He looked over his book, exclaiming, “Why, child, how you startled me!”
Then in a gentler voice he added, “What brought you here, Little One?”

The pet name helped to ease her fluttering heart. She stepped nearer
and quietly studied his face a minute.

“Can you keep a secret?” she asked, still watching him closely.

He was amused with his little visitor and replied, “For how long?”

“Forever,” came the instant, firm reply.

Something in the child’s earnest face at once sobered the minister.

“That depends, Miss Chee,” he answered.

Chee seated herself beside him on the hay. She had forgotten to be
afraid.

“Mr. Green,”--the bead-like eyes enlarged, and seemed to soften as she
spoke,--“you are a minister, and if you once promise you can’t break
your word--ever, can you?”

“Not and be a true minister, I suppose.”

“Then won’t you promise?”

“I guess so.”

“This is a ’portant matter. ‘Guess so’ won’t do. Say ‘yes,’ please.”

“Well, yes, then, little lawyer.” Though just what he was promising
was not clear to him, it brought a thoughtful, satisfied expression to
Chee’s face as, looking down, she sat absently crumpling hay.

[Illustration: “‘THIS IS A ’PORTANT MATTER. “GUESS SO” WON’T DO. SAY
“YES,” PLEASE’”]

“And what about the secret?” asked the clergyman, after some moments of
silence.

She looked up quickly. She had been busy pondering how far she should
explain matters, and had half forgotten his presence.

“Why, you know, you said old ones were lots better than new ones, but I
am afraid you were mistaken, for Daddy Joe’s is very, very bad.”

“What are you talking about, child?”

“Why, you said it your very own self, you did.” Here was a new
difficulty. “A minister can’t back out of what he said. And you said
it, sir. Don’t you remember that Sunday you preached that old ones were
better than the new ones? Please think hard.”

“Old what?”

“Why, old fiddles. You said so.”

“Oh, well, suppose I did. It’s a well-known fact, little girl.”

“I did understand right, after all, then? But what can be the matter
with Daddy Joe’s?”

Mr. Green looked more perplexed. “I don’t yet quite understand you,
Chee. Suppose you begin at the beginning, and tell me all about it.”

So Chee commenced, growing more and more interested in her own story as
she went on, for were not the minister’s eyes smiling into hers as if
to say, “You came to the very right person, little Chee--the very right
person.”

“Then I promised Our Father faithfully,” she continued, telling of the
night before when she had resolved to consult the minister, “that if
He’d do that for me I’d do something for Him. And I will, honest, for
He did hear me,” she concluded by saying, in a hushed, reverent voice.

Her listener happened to be searching about for his handkerchief just
then. The disturbance in the hay caused the dust to fly. This brought
moisture to his eyes. Chee gravely offered her small square of linen.

When she had finished telling all about her Daddy Joe’s fiddle, he
said, gaily, “I am not much of a musician, but long ago when I was in
college I owned a violin. It must be in the house somewhere, now. I’ll
hunt it up, and tell you what little I know about it.”

Chee’s eyes shone more brightly. Catching hold of her new friend’s
sleeve,--he had risen to go down the ladder,--she said, her voice deep
with emotion, “I wish I could thank you more than tongue can tell.” It
was not a very elaborate thank you, but the glow in her eyes made up
any loss of words.

“I never before saw a child so thoroughly in earnest,” he mused.
“She must possess an exceedingly passionate nature, or else be
extraordinarily fond of music.”

“Oh, dear! Aunt Mean’ll miss me. It’s getting so late, and she won’t
let me come again in a long, long time.” But even as she spoke in a
troubled way, a smile broke over her face. “He fixed it before,” she
said, reverently, “I’ll ask Him again.”

The minister understood, and many a day, when his burdens were heavy,
he recalled the faith of a little half-Indian child.




CHAPTER V.


It was Sunday. The morning sermon was ended, and the choir-leader had
played the “walkout,” as Chee termed the postlude.

The choir-leader was a very interesting person. He not only led the
singing and played the organ at church, but could whistle. And such
whistling! Not the every-day wood-pile sort, but the kind that made
every boy in town his friend.

He was tall, had a sallow, haggard face and hollow eyes. His spare
locks almost touched his shoulders, and appeared to be faded. One knew
at a second glance, however, they had never been brighter.

This eccentric-looking gentleman had hardly slipped from off the long
bench before the organ, ere the minister had found Aunt Mean and was
saying, “Will you kindly do Mrs. Green and myself a favor?”

“You know very well, Elder, any living thing on our farm is at your
disposal. If I’ve said it once, I have said it a hundred times!”

“Well, it is something from your farm, to be sure. We want your little
niece for a day--say Wednesday, if it is pleasant.”

“Chee?” she exclaimed, with surprise. “For mercy’s sake, what do you
want o’ her?”

“You know how fond of children we are--both of us. We want her to enjoy
her. Surely, you can spare the child for a single day.”

“It ain’t the sparin’ on her.” But catching sight of Chee’s pleading
eyes, she added, “I don’t want no niece o’ mine botherin’ round and
makin’ Mrs. Green a heap o’ work.”

“No, indeed, Chee would be a real help. You know, Miss Whittaker, a
home without a child is often a lonely place.”

“Some folks ain’t had much chance to find out, lately,” and Aunt Mean
went off with her favorite “Humph.”

For awhile after that eventful visit, matters went more smoothly for
Chee.

She was taught how to tighten the strings of her violin until they
formed chords, and how to play scales upon them. Her eyes opened wide
with astonishment.

“To think the dear old fiddle hasn’t been to blame, after all!” she
joyfully cried. “Just me!”

It was a great revelation to her to find the strings had always to be
brought up to a certain pitch. “Why, no wonder Daddy Joe’s couldn’t
play if they have to be pulled up every time,” she exclaimed, then
added, plaintively, “It’s years and years since Daddy’s pulled up his.”

“Of course it’s no wonder,” laughed her teacher, fingering the
companion of his boyhood days. “Even the strings on this are yellow
from lying in a paper so long. What must your father’s be like?
It’s a great marvel that they have not snapped before this. No, no,
little one, don’t condemn the instrument, but keep right on trying to
understand it.”

Chee, with a light heart, bade the minister and his wife good-by. She
had begun to learn how to make music. And were not a whole package of
violin-strings in her pocket?

After this it became more natural for the pastor to say Sundays, “May
we have Chee to-morrow, Miss Whittaker?” Or, “Mrs. Green wishes me to
engage your little niece for Thursday,” and Aunt Mean seldom refused.

Chee never quite understood why permission was so readily given.
Secretly she puzzled over it, but was far too grateful to ask questions.

The truth of the matter is this--it flattered Aunt Mean to have
the minister intimate with her little relative. Moreover, she had
an indescribable notion that by allowing her niece to frequent the
parsonage, she might in some way counterbalance the child’s heathendom.
“It’s no use for you to tell me different, Reuben,” she would argue.
“Her mother was a heathen, or Injun” (the two were synonymous in Aunt
Mean’s mind), “and do what we can, the girl will allers be half a
savage.”

So Chee--in spite of her aunt’s arguing, decidedly a whole person--was
allowed to spend one or two days of every week with her friends.

From chords and scales, she learned to pick out simple tunes, those she
heard at church being her chief source of selection. After awhile she
learned to play little melodies of her own composing. “Wind and bird
songs,” she called them.

The clergyman gave her all the rules for violin-playing he knew, and
his wife taught her to read music.

They were happy times for Chee,--Mrs. Green at the piano, playing old,
familiar hymns, Chee picking out the notes on the minister’s violin.

One day she said, “Some way, Mr. Green, I can’t love your fiddle
like I do Daddy’s.” Then fearing she might hurt her good friend’s
feelings, she hastened to add, “It’s very much shinier, and of course
it’s a fiddle.” Mrs. Green used to wonder if “fiddle” wasn’t the most
beautiful word in all the world to Chee.

Three years passed without much change except Chee’s gradual
improvement and increasing delight in her music.

In Aunt Mean’s best parlor, a hymn-book lay in prim stateliness beside
the family Bible. It was a coveted treasure to Chee. But the principle
of strict honesty was a part of her very soul, in spite of her
“heathen” mother, and the Bible was never left alone to gather dust.

Much to her displeasure, she was “broke in.” But in time she took her
household duties as a matter of course, and things went on much in the
same old way.




CHAPTER VI.


Once Chee suffered a great scare. The whole secret of her violin
threatened to come out.

Neighbor Flannigan often stayed with his cronies at the “Corners” a
little too long for his own good. One night, being even less himself
than usual, he stumbled into the Whittaker place instead of his own.
Too stupid to reach the house, he threw himself down on the grass.

As the effect of his evening’s carousing began to wear off, he was
startled by the sound of strange music. Seemingly it came from the
Whittaker attic.

For awhile he was charmed. What could it be? More and more the
mystery of it impressed him. At last frightened by his own ignorant
conjectures, he became certain the old house was haunted, and as fast
as his shaky legs could carry him he started home on a run.

The following morning he felt it his duty to confide in Uncle Reuben.
“I was jest that tired from me day’s woruk I had to rest me legs
a spell,--you know how it is yourself, Mr. Whittaker,--when thim
unairthly sounds blowed up softly loike, roight out of the chimbly.”

“What in the world could the fellow have heard?” asked Uncle Reuben at
breakfast.

“Heard? Why, the whiskey rattling his brain,” replied Aunt Mean. “Don’t
look so frightened, Chee. It’s wicked to believe in ghosts, and I don’t
want you to get no sech notions in your head.” Perhaps Aunt Mean was
giving orders to herself as well as to her niece.

That night Chee scarcely dared play, and it was many a day before
her old confidence returned. The full, round tones she loved were
stealthily smothered. Fortunately, the house was well back from the
road. No neighboring farms were within hearing distance, so her scare
was finally forgotten. However, something else happened which caused
Chee to leave Daddy Joe’s fiddle in silence a long time. It was Cousin
Gertrude’s coming to the farm.

Chee wore her pink gingham the day she came, and even Aunt Mean was
dressed up in a white apron.

“She’s the gayest thing, with dancin’ blue eyes, and yellow hair and
pink cheeks, ’stead of brown ’uns,” with unnecessary emphasis on the
“brown.”

Tears stole down the “brown” ones at this remark by Aunt Mean, who was
tightly tying Chee’s braids with bits of shoe-strings. (It was a grief
to Chee that Aunt Mean should not allow her to braid her own hair.)

“Our Father made my face brown,” she kept thinking. “He wanted it so.”
Yet something seemed to have dulled the brightness of the morning.

“I ’spect she’ll call me Ugly Nut, too, like Aunt Mean used to,”
mourned Chee. She had never attended school, and though her secluded
life made her an old child in some ways, it kept her wonderfully
baby-like in others. Indeed, it is doubtful if years of learning
or contact with wise people could ever take away her simple,
questioning-like manner. It might always be “Chee’s way.”

Soon the carriage wheels were heard on the gravel drive, and sad
thoughts were quickly put away in the excitement of Cousin Gertrude’s
arrival.

Yes, she was, as Aunt Mean had said, a “gay thing.” At least, so it
seemed as she flew about the house, visiting old nooks and corners, or
out calling the chickens and feeding Fanny and the colt.

It was all very startling to Chee,--her lively movements, her merry
repartee, and her show of affection. It seemed so natural for Cousin
Gertrude to lean her fair head against Uncle Reuben’s shoulder. Chee
would have felt extremely strange in such an act, even if she were tall
enough to reach it. And as for laughing right up into Aunt Mean’s face,
as though sharp words were only a joke between them, it would have been
impossible for Chee to have tried it.

In the afternoon, when she found her pretty cousin sitting idle in the
little grove behind the house, there was a change.

The lips that had all day been parted in laughter were drooping. Her
blue eyes were watching the hill-tops as though they saw something very
sad over there. At sight of Chee they brightened a little.

“Come here, you tiny witch,” she called, making room in the hammock.
“Do you know you make me think of a poem I read once called ‘The
Nut-Brown Maiden.’”

Chee’s eyes were shyly raised. “Nut-Brown Maiden is ever so pretty,”
she said. “Aunt Mean used to call me ‘Ugly Nut,’ but my daddy was here
then and he stopped her. Now she calls me ‘Chee.’”

“How odd! I like it, though. Is it an Indian name?” It seemed to the
little girl her cousin must love Indian names, she spoke so tenderly.
How good it was not to feel in disgrace!

“My real name is Opechee. They call me Chee, for short. Aunt Mean says
‘it doesn’t holler so loud of Indian wigwams.’”

“‘Holler of wigwams,’” echoed Gertrude. “You poor, darling child.”

“But I don’t mind so much, for I know what it means,” murmured Chee, as
she smiled up into the deep blue sky. “A song-bird--I’d rather be that
than anything else.” Then turning with something of Cousin Gertrude’s
own impulsiveness, she asked, “Oh, isn’t it lovely? You can’t know how
glad I am it’s my name.”

No, the girl could not understand Chee’s strange, almost unreasonable
pleasure, but to see the little one so happy could but lighten her own
heart.

Many a long talk had they together in that little grove, and during
their rambles over the farm. At times Chee would be tempted to unburden
her heart of its secret, but, young as she was, she knew Cousin
Gertrude had a secret, too; for often when they were talking of the
happiest things, the sparkle would die out of the big blue eyes that
Chee so lovingly watched.

“Cousin Gertrude has forgotten all about her Nut-Brown Maiden,” she
would think. “She doesn’t tell me her secret, and I won’t tell her
mine.”

And yet before autumn both secrets came out.




CHAPTER VII.


One night Chee was feeling very lonely for Daddy Joe’s fiddle--more
lonely than any night since Cousin Gertrude had been at the farm. It
seemed years since she had fingered its dear old strings. She had been
very much discouraged that last time. Knowing so well the tones she
longed to hear, though she had done her best, she was dissatisfied.
Even now she could feel the thrill that entered her soul at the
concert, three long years ago.

“If I could only play that way how happy I’d be. I wouldn’t care any
more about Aunt Mean, nor my face, nor feel the aching so for Daddy
Joe, nor anything.”

Chee was troubled with these mournful thoughts when she suddenly became
conscious that some one near was crying--very softly, but surely crying.

There was an opening which had been cut through for a register from
Chee’s room to the “best room” below.

“It must be Cousin Gertrude, and something awful must be the matter to
make anybody big cry almost out loud.”

She could not endure it long, just to lie still and listen. Creeping
down the front stairs, she noiselessly entered the best bedroom, and
slipped her hand into Gertrude’s.

“Why, Childie, how came you here?” The young lady tried to speak as
though tears were not even then rolling down her cheeks.

“To comfort you,” was the simple explanation.

For a moment, big blue eyes looked yearningly into little black ones,
then dropped, and tears stole from under quivering lashes.

Chee crept closer. “Wouldn’t it help you to tell me about your secret?”
she asked, sobbingly.

Cousin Gertrude took the little girl in her arms. Sitting on the bed
she rocked her gently back and forth, as though to quiet the would-be
comforter herself.

“It was because I was angry. I know it. I am all to blame. Who had a
better right to tell me of my faults? But I had been abroad and he
hadn’t, and he made me so indignant. I’ve such an awful temper, Birdie,
you must never let yours run away with you.”

Chee was frightened at her cousin’s sudden outburst of confidence, but,
with characteristic intuitiveness, she said nothing.

“I forgot that his feelings were just as hard to manage, and I threw it
down and declared I would never touch it again as long as I lived. And
then he said he would never speak to me again until I had taken back my
words.

“Then the carriage came--oh, why didn’t it wait a little longer? I
would surely have come to my senses in another minute. But I left
him and came here. Yet Birdie, Birdie, wouldn’t I touch it now if I
could--if it wasn’t at home and he far, far away!

“Oh, why did I lose my temper? How could I? They always said we were
both too hot-headed to get on together. And now all is lost forever,
he’s gone--he won’t come back. Oh, I can never, never forget this
night.”

[Illustration: “‘SHALL I ASK OUR FATHER?’”]

The girl ceased her wild, mournful speaking and buried her face in
her pillow. Uncontrolled sobs shook her form.

Chee was bewildered. She could not understand Gertrude’s trouble, but
her cousin’s misery had become hers. Her fingers trembled while she
stroked the bright hair, trying to think of the right thing to say.
Soon Cousin Gertrude was quiet. Chee thought her asleep, when a long,
quivering sigh escaped. It seemed almost a sob.

Chee had wanted to say something which she had hardly dared; this last
sign of grief now gave her courage.

“Cousin Gertrude,” she ventured, in a whisper, her lips close to the
other’s hot cheek.

“Yes, Birdie.”

“Would--would--shall I ask Our Father--to make it better?” The
moonlight was falling clear on Chee’s upturned face. Her eyes shone
softly, their usual glittering brightness mellowed. Her long black
hair appeared blacker than ever as it fell upon the whiteness of her
night-robe.

A feeling of awe came over the older girl. “Can this be the same
child,” she meditated, “who with expressionless features obeys Aunt
Mean’s abrupt commands? Can this be the same little girl who once
blushed to tell me her Indian name--this tiny being so strong and
trustful, who looks now as though bringing a message from the angels,
if she be not one herself? Shall I tell her God cannot help, that I
have brought my own trouble upon myself, and I only am to blame?”

But the longer those eyes looked their message into hers, the more
unwilling she became to speak this bitterness. “She is but a child,
after all. I will not dim the brightness of a faith so beautiful.”
Finally she answered, in a low and tender voice, “Yes, Birdie, you may
ask Him.”

“Then good night, Cousin Gertrude.” A kiss--and the little comforter
was gone.

The next day Gertrude did not leave her room. She had told Aunt Mean
that a severe headache made her feel weak. Chee thought she might
honestly have said “heartache.”

The little girl cheerfully waited on the sufferer, but when once
outside the best bedroom, her face was very sober.

“Of course Our Father will make it all right soon, ’cause I asked Him
to be very quick, but I do wish so hard He’d let me help.”

Finally the long day drew to a close. Aunt Mean and Uncle Reuben
retired. Chee again returned to Gertrude.

She was in the parlor. It was very dark in there, even the dim twilight
was shut out. Chee, following Cousin Gertrude’s voice, found her
sitting by the window.

She threw open the blinds. She could not bear to think her friend was
sitting alone in the dark.

“Cheer up, Birdie, I shall be better soon,” said the girl at sight of
Chee’s sorrowful face. But even while she tried to speak gaily, she
looked so pale and worn it saddened the little cousin.

Chee started up-stairs, then turning, came slowly back and hesitatingly
whispered, “I’ve told Him all about it. He’s surely heard. It’ll be all
right pretty soon.”

“Yes, my comforter,” was the only reply.

Up in her own room, how Chee longed for Daddy Joe’s fiddle. “I know I
could make real music to-night--I know I could,” she told herself. “I
am sure it would be real, but it would never do; I mustn’t, cause then
my secret wouldn’t be mine any more.”

But the temptation increased, until she resolved to bring out her
treasure and look at it. “Just look at it and hold it.” That would give
a little joy.




CHAPTER VIII.


About sundown, as the people of Chesterfield say, the train drew
into the village. At the station a gentleman stepped off, left his
travelling-case at the hotel near, and sauntered up the street.

“Here, Bub,” he called to an urchin who, with his hands in his pockets,
his legs apparently too long for his trousers, stood eyeing the
stranger from the store doorway, “can you tell me if there is a person
by the name of Reuben Whittaker residing in this town?”

“Guess you want--Miss Mean’s--brother Reuben--don’t you?” he replied
intermittently, while severely intent upon chewing gum. “She
lives--out--to the Bend.”

“Is it far?”

“Nope--not more’n--four miles. You just go straight--on, till--you get
there.”

“Well, that’s quite a walk, but I guess I’ll try it. Want a nickel?”

“Nope. Pop don’t ’low--no pay for--common p’lite--says its--due our
country--of her cit’zens.”

“Queer little chap, that,” mused the traveller. “Pity the rest of us
don’t have more citizen politeness.” The man’s face was rather haggard.
Several times as he strode along the little path, pulling at the
daisies by its edge, he heaved a long sigh.

“I’ve given in so much,” he said, half aloud to himself, “she’ll have
to give in the rest. How fiery I was, though! Poor little thing! Well,
I’ve said it, and I’ll have to stick to it now. I suppose it is all
folly my going to the house, but, Great Scott! what’s a feller going
to do? I can’t sleep nights till I’ve caught a glimpse of her, anyhow.
Maybe she’s ready to give in now. If she doesn’t of her own accord, it
will never do for me to say anything--never. That dream I had bothers
the life out of me--can’t seem to shake it off. Of course she’s all
right, flying around like a butterfly this minute, most likely,” and
the young man smiled rather bitterly.

He had come from the city to make sure a girl was not in trouble, but
the thought of her enjoying herself made him uneasy.

From the village to the “Bend” was, as he had remarked, quite a
distance. In spite of brisk walking it was nearly dark before his
destination was reached.

“That must be the place,” he thought, quickening his steps as the white
buildings of the Whittaker farm loomed up in the dusk.

“What in the world shall I do, now I’m here?” he asked himself, as he
paused in front of the house. “If she’d only come out and take back her
words it would be all right. But goodness! she’s an awful spunky little
thing when she’s once under way, and it was pretty tough for her. It’s
mighty certain it’s not in her line, but I needn’t have been quite so
hard with her. Hang it all! what am I going to do now? What in the
Dickens made me come, anyway? Only because I’m such a fool I couldn’t
keep myself away.”

He stood leaning against a tree near one of the windows. The summer
air was very still. Only occasionally the birds stirred in their nests
above his head and murmured sleepily. Once some restless animal
pounded the floor of the barn.

Suddenly a low strain of music startled him. Did it come from one of
the open windows? Timidly soft it sounded, as though fearing to let
itself be heard--weird and sad.

The man out among the shadows trembled. “Can that be she? Has she given
in?”

The music grew more abandoned. In its sorrow it seemed to have
forgotten its timidity. The long notes sobbed and moaned, now and then
dying into quieter, more entreating tones. In their tears they paused
and prayed.

The listener was a musician, and the melody reached the depths of his
soul. Facing the window, he called in a broken voice, “Gertrude.”

The music instantly ceased. A glad cry rang out, “Herman! my Herman!”

In a second, the man had vaulted the low sill of the parlor window. He
hurriedly glanced around the room. No musical instrument could be seen,
but a trembling form was steadying itself against the casing.

“Gertie, poor little Gertie!”

A faint voice answered, “Is it true? Can it be you? O Herman!”

Again the music rang out. Triumphant peals this time, strain after
strain of tumultuous joy, clearer and clearer, stronger and stronger,
until the notes could hardly hold their fulness.

In the parlor Gertrude and Herman stood gazing into each other’s
startled eyes.

The wild, rapturous song paused; then breaking out in steadier notes,
even and rich, it gradually mellowed and hushed until it died away in a
whispered breath.

“It ended like a prayer of thanksgiving,” said he.

Gertrude caught her breath. “Hush!” She buried her face in her hands,
whispering, “It was. I see it all now. It must have been little
Chee,--there is no one else.” Lifting her head, she added, with a
strange, new light in her eyes, “Oh, Herman, she was thanking God
for answering her prayer. I believe it.” And then, half choked with
feeling, she told what she knew of her little Indian cousin.




CHAPTER IX.


Cousin Gertrude stole up-stairs. Chee had heard good-byes a few moments
before, and was hoping, yet fearing, she might find her.

The child sat by the window removing her stockings. Daddy Joe’s fiddle
lay on the bed.

“Birdie, how could you? Oh, how could you?”

“I don’t know,” answered Chee, in an excited voice. “I tried not to
play out loud, but I got feeling sorrier and sorrier, and wishing He
would only let me help. And I forgot to play still, and then I heard a
man’s voice, and heard you answer, and I knew everything was all right,
and I was so happy I just snatched up Daddy’s fiddle and played out my
glad. I didn’t care who heard, for a minute; and, oh, Cousin Gertrude,
I felt it--I felt it.”

“Felt what, Childie?”

“Why, the music--way down in my heart, and all over me, just like I
did at the concert. I don’t know what to call it, but it’s something,
and I’ve tried to feel it for such a long time. And now I have, and it
makes me so happy--so happy, you can’t know. It just makes me glad all
through, and I feel like crying, too.”

“I am as happy as you, my own little Bird.”

Chee’s arms were around Gertrude’s neck, as she asked, “He did hear,
didn’t He?”

“Yes, my comfort, He did hear,” answered Gertrude, tears again in her
voice, “but you helped Him.”

“I helped Him?” echoed Chee, shaking her head almost sadly. “No, I
wanted to so much, but He didn’t need me.”

After a little, Gertrude said, “Listen, while I tell you how you
helped--you’ll see He did need you, after all.

“I love the violin, too--not as you do. I wanted to play because people
expected I would. I felt too proud to say that, after years of study,
I could never be a great player, and so I kept on working with one
teacher after another. Finally, Mr. Farrar, that is my Herman, told
me I had better not spend all my time and money for that any longer.
He said I had come to a place where I could never go much beyond, and
that I wanted to play more from pride than from love--just because my
parents had decided, when I was but a child, that music was my first
gift. I had found true what he said, but it made me angry that he
should dare to tell me. I said some words back. He retorted. We’re both
sorry now, but I was so vexed then, I said I would never touch the
violin again. My temper offended him, his also rose, and he said he
would not speak to me until I took back my words.

“It was the day I had set to come here. He was just going to the woods
for his vacation, but he felt so sad he could not go, and went back
home instead. Then one night he had a horrible dream that troubled him,
so he came to see if I was really safe and well. He says that, down in
his heart, he was hoping I was ready to take back my words.

“While he was wishing so much I would come to him--he was out under
the trees, you know--he heard music. He thought for a moment I was
playing, and when he reached me and found out I wasn’t--well, we were
both so glad to be together again we forgot which one was to blame.
It seemed very silly to have quarrelled at all when we understood and
loved each other so. Anyway, now we are only glad to be together again
and forget everything. Can’t you see how it might never have come right
if you had not played when you did?”

Chee made no answer, her heart was full.

“Of course,” she continued, “if he had stopped to think he would have
known it never could have been my playing,--he knows me so well,--but
he was anxious and didn’t realize. It seemed to him, he said, the music
must be mine, he wanted so much I should take back my words.

“You did help, my Birdie, but you sha’n’t be left to sing alone any
longer. Oh!” a new light dawning, “now I know why you love to think
Opechee means a song-bird,” and she kissed the silent child with new
fondness.

“We are going to ride in the morning, my Herman and I, and when we
return perhaps we will have something to tell you. But oh, my precious
cousin, you can never, never know all you have done for us.”

Chee only answered with a grave little shake of her head, “It wasn’t
me, ’twas only Our Father, and”--she added tenderly--“Daddy Joe’s
fiddle.”




CHAPTER X.


In the morning, as he had promised, Mr. Farrar came to take Cousin
Gertrude to drive.

“Chee! Chee! Nut-Brown Maiden, where are you?” Stepping to the
stairway, Gertrude called, more earnestly, “Birdie, I want you.”

A shy little face peered over the railing, “Please, Cousin Gertrude,
have I _got_ to come down?”

“Why, Chee, wouldn’t you like to? There is some one here I want you to
see.”

“Yes, I know, but I’d rather look at him through the parlor blinds.”

Gertrude showed her disappointment. Chee watched her and yielded,
exclaiming, “Well, you must be awful proud of him to feel so bad. I
suppose I’d ought to come.”

Cousin Gertrude’s cheeks grew pinker, but she did not look displeased;
she only held out her hand to Chee. Wondering what she might say to
put the little girl more at ease, she led her to the veranda.

A gentleman was standing by the carriage block, stroking the mane of a
horse. At sight of Chee he quickly removed his hat, as though to some
fine lady. “So this is little Chee,” said he, “our sweet singer, only
she doesn’t really sing, she plays. Good morning, my dear.”

“Good morning. I don’t know just what to call you yet. It doesn’t seem
quite kind to say ‘Mr. Farrar,’ when you are Cousin Gertrude’s best
friend, does it? She calls you ‘my Herman,’ but I’m afraid she’d rather
I wouldn’t say that, too.”

Mr. Farrar was pleased with this artlessness, characteristic of
Chee, so unlike any boldness, so like open confidence in one she
instinctively recognized to be worthy. Her voice at such times seemed
to say, “I’ll trust you, you may trust me.”

His eyes twinkled, but he said gravely, seeming not to notice Gertrude,
“Suppose you compromise, and say ‘our Herman.’”

Chee gave a perplexed glance toward Gertrude. Suddenly a smile
brightened her face, as she exclaimed, “Oh, I’ve got it. Why didn’t
we think before? S’pose I call you ‘Cousin Herman.’” She gave no
opportunity for dissent before adding, “It’s so much more comfortable,
now I know who you are.”

Cousin Gertrude appeared somewhat confused, but her friend patted the
little girl’s head approvingly, saying, “Quite right, little Chee, the
very thing, indeed--”

“But Birdie,” hastily interrupted Gertrude, “we haven’t thanked you
yet.” The child cast furtive glances toward the house. Her companions
changed the conversation. Their eyes, following hers, had seen others,
steel blue, peering through a lace curtain.

“Is Aunt Mean busy?” asked Gertrude.

After a discreet silence Aunt Mean appeared in the front doorway.
A brief introduction had scarcely passed before she said, aside to
Gertrude, in low but decidedly distinct tones, “A very likely young
man, my dear, very likely. You showed good taste. I persume there ain’t
a better looking in our neighborhood,” adding, reflectively, “It’s a
mighty serious business, this gittin’ a man.”

Chee wondered if Aunt Mean spoke from experience, and if it wouldn’t
have been a very serious matter indeed if Aunt Mean had ever attempted
to “git” any man other than her brother. During the embarrassment that
followed, Mr. Farrar found occasion to remark that it was getting late,
and Cousin Gertrude felt obliged to go for her hat. But before entering
the carriage she managed to whisper to Chee, “Don’t undress when you go
up-stairs to-night--we shall be home early.”

What a long day it seemed to Chee! How anxiously she listened for the
sound of wheels on the driveway!

After all she watched in vain, for they had left the carriage before
the Bend was reached. The first she knew of their coming was a step
on the stairway--very soft, like stocking feet. She opened the door
a little. “Take off your shoes please, Chee, and come down into the
parlor awhile.”

It was fortunate that the bedrooms occupied by Miss Almeana and her
brother were at the extreme end of the house. Furthermore, both were
slightly deaf and extraordinarily sound sleepers.

In the parlor the cousins and Mr. Farrar gathered around Chee’s tin
lamp. “And so you have had no instructor but that minister,” he began.
“We saw him to-day, and, as he himself says, he doesn’t know much about
music. You can read notes, he tells me.”

“Easy music,” answered Chee, bashfully. The dreaded ordeal had
come--her secret was out.

“Well, that’s good, but how in the world did you learn to manage the
instrument? Who taught you to hold it, child?”

“I don’t know, Cousin Herman, I think perhaps I hold it just as Daddy
did, maybe I don’t, though. It’s so long since I’ve seen him I can’t be
sure.” This last was added a little wearily. “What has the way I hold
Daddy’s fiddle to do with Cousin Herman?” she wondered.

“It’s just as I say,” exclaimed Mr. Farrar, turning to Gertrude,--
“inherited talent. Probably the father was only a fair player, but
unless I’m stepping down a peg, the child’s a genius.” Chee wondered
if a genius was something nice, but, because she disliked to show her
ignorance, refrained from asking.

“Of course the child has run to weeds--it couldn’t be otherwise. I must
hear her play again, but at all odds she is a musician.” Then turning
suddenly to Chee, he asked, “Where is your violin, my dear? You must
play your best for me, then Gertrude shall tell you our plan.”

Chee looked frightened, “Why, Cousin Herman, I couldn’t, she’d hear
me--I couldn’t for anything.”

“Who? Oh, I forgot. Well, we’ll have to fix it somehow. Where have you
been playing all this while? Up attic? What’s the harm now, then?” So
saying, Mr. Farrar proceeded to unlace his shoes.

Chee was a little tremulous over the undertaking, but Cousin Herman was
firm; so carrying her small lamp she led the way up the front stairs,
shielding the flickering flame with her hand. The light fell full upon
her excited face. Now and then she paused in the slow, careful ascent
to give whispered warning where a stair-riser might creak--all so
familiar to her. Mr. Farrar easily stepped over these places, as did
Chee, but, lest there should be any slight noise and their stealthy
journey to the attic be disclosed, he assisted Gertrude over the
treacherous places as indicated by their little Indian guide. When the
garret was reached, Gertrude seated herself on a trunk. Mr. Farrar
leaned against the chimney. Chee lingered at the railing, anxiously
listening.

[Illustration: “SHE STOOD A MOMENT IN MEDITATION, THE VIOLIN ALREADY
UNDER HER CHIN”]

“Chee!” they both impatiently called, at the same time glancing
curiously around.

She approached the familiar hiding-place, and very slowly drew out the
old violin box. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips met in a straight
line. A brave determination burned in her eyes. She realized in a vague
way that much depended upon this effort, but with a pleased, expectant
look she deftly attuned the strings of her instrument.

When this was done, she stood a moment in meditation, the violin
already under her chin, lightly tapping one foot with the bow.

It was a queer place in which to make one’s début,--that dusty corner
of the old loft. The tin lamp on a box lighted up the beams hung with
long drooping garlands of cobwebs. Not within reach of the lamplight,
or the pale moonshine coming through the curtainless windows, huge
black shadows gathered around. But the weirdness of the aspect did not
impress Chee; for her a more familiar spot could not have been chosen.
Oh, how many happy hours she had spent in that dim little corner!

Soon her meditative position changed, she had come to a decision, and
began to play.

At first, embarrassment hindered her, but before many notes trembled
out on the stillness, she had forgotten everything except her song.

It was only the old-fashioned air, “Annie Laurie.” The child must have
known the words, for her music told, even plainer than any words could
tell, the sentiment of the old-time refrain. Perhaps she had guessed
more of her listeners’ state of mind than they knew. However this may
have been, she had chosen well; while the song lasted, her listeners
forgot to be critics--they were only lovers.

The last strains had scarcely died away, when, close upon them,
followed the opening notes of “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” If the first
piece had been selected for her audience, this was for herself.

It was her favorite, the one she most often played. No embarrassment
now--with a far-away expression in her eyes, she gave variation after
variation of the familiar hymn. Suddenly the bow paused--the note just
begun was never finished. A slight noise came from the stairway. After
a moment of listening, Mr. Farrar crept to the railing and looked down.
Everything was still.

“It must have been only mice,” he said, but Chee was thoroughly
frightened. Nothing could induce her to continue. At the first sign of
alarm Daddy Joe’s fiddle had disappeared.




CHAPTER XI.


After Mr. Farrar had bade them good night and stolen out the front
doorway, Gertrude revealed to Chee their plan.

“We are going to have a concert,” she announced. “Mr. Green says you
haven’t had one here in town since last Christmas--and we’re going to
get people so interested the whole place will turn out. Herman knows
how, for he has gotten up several in the city.”

“Get up a concert, why, how can he?” asked Chee, incredulously.

“He will have a chorus. Every child in the village must be in that. And
he is going to send for some of his friends,--a man to play the harp,
and a lady to sing, and some others. And Herman, you know, plays on the
piano,--that’s his profession.”

“Oh!” said Chee, in a tone of new understanding.

“But wait, dear, the best part is coming. _You_ are the best part of
all.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Birdie, you. That’s what the whole thing is for. It’s Mr. Green’s
idea as much as Herman’s. It’s to be kept a surprise--I mean you
are--your name won’t appear on the programme at all.”

“My name on the programme! Cousin Gertrude, what do you mean?” Poor
Chee was thoroughly alarmed now.

“Mean? You dear little monkey, you. Why nothing at all but that you and
your violin are going to bring down the house.”

“Do you mean my secret has got to come out?”

“Of course. Isn’t it already out? More’s the pity it has been kept so
long.”

“But Aunt Mean! Why, Cousin Gertrude, what are you thinking of? You
know how she hates it, and calls it wicked.” Chee was almost in tears.

“Dear Birdie, can’t you see that’s what the whole thing is for--to cure
Aunt Mean of her nonsense? You know how proud she is--we think if we
can only get her to the hall, that, after she has heard how beautifully
you play and how fine people think it is, she will give right in.”

“I’m ’fraid she mightn’t--’sides, Cousin Gertrude, how could I ever
play at the hall? I never, never could do that.”

“Chee,” Gertrude’s face was earnest with pleading, “you love your
little violin, don’t you?”

“You know I love Daddy Joe’s fiddle best of everything in this world.”

“Well, if you knew that all you ever might learn about it depended upon
whether you played at the hall or not, couldn’t you do it?”

“Do you mean I could learn to make music like the man at the concert
long ago?” Chee spoke tremulously, and tears filled her eyes as they
looked up, so full of yearning entreaty.

“Yes, I think you could. If our concert was a success, so Aunt Mean
would let you go, we would take you to the city with us, where you
could study music to your heart’s content.”

“Go to the city and learn how to play all I want to!” Chee echoed.

“Can’t you get courage to play at the concert, now?” The child’s lips
compressed for a moment, then she answered in a whisper, “I don’t
believe she’d ever let me go, but I’ll try.”

“That’s a dear. Don’t you worry about Aunt Mean. Just wait until my
Nut-Brown Maiden thrills the house.”

Chee shook her head dubiously. “Aunt Mean never lets anything make her
feel as though she must fly straight to heaven. She can’t,” said the
little girl, translating Gertrude’s words into a language of her own.




CHAPTER XII.


Busy weeks followed. Mr. Farrar frequently came and went--of course to
see Gertrude, but often their afternoon drive together was only to and
from the parsonage gate.

Finally the day for the concert was set. Artists from a distance were
engaged, and the children’s rehearsal commenced. Chesterfield life had
begun to lag. For the farmers it was less dull than for the townsfolk,
on account of the haying. But gossip was scarce, and the news of a
concert ahead was a genuine treat.

“Now I wouldn’t snap my fingers to hear the school youngsters holler,
but regular music fellers from the city--that’s something we don’t get
a chance at every day.”

The choir-leader made this remark with his usual nasal drawl. The big
bulletin of the coming event was being fastened against the wall of
the post-office. A little knot of men and boys had gathered around.

“Well, I don’t know as I could ’zactly afford to pay for city finery,
but as Sadie and Bill are both a-going to sing, mother ’n’ me cal’ated
as how we’d have to see they did right proper,” replied wee Sadie’s
grandpa.

“Stuff and nonsense,” growled the doctor, as he peered impatiently at
the postmistress, as though that meek little person was to blame for
the tardiness of a letter, “waste of time and money.” But the doctor
was a bachelor, and “took in the shows,” so the people said, during his
city trips. He was a gruff man, and though they had often proved his
kind-heartedness in a case of measles, or scarlet fever, small urchins
stepped aside with alacrity as he passed.

“Some on you is wrong, and some on you is maybe right,” said Bill
Saulswick, the village wag and philosopher, “but I know good tunes
when I hears ’um; just gimme the sort, be it fiddlin’, or singin’, or
drummin’,--that tells me why I’m who, and which I’m what, and when I’m
where, and I’ll sit there till the lights go out.”

While the villagers enjoyed the gossip, poor little Chee was in a whirl
of excitement. Her days seemed a series of ups and downs. At times she
could hardly wait for the great day to arrive, then in a moment her
heart would sink with terror, and she would hide herself for hours
until she had conquered the temptation to tell Cousin Gertrude she must
break her promise. But she came of a sturdy, resolute race,--to falter
would be worse than to fail, so she struggled with herself, Gertrude
claiming more and more of her time as the eventful day drew nearer.

“It do beat all,” Aunt Mean would exclaim, as from the pantry window
she watched the girls go through the meadow lot, “what Gertrude finds
so entertainin’ about that child. She hasn’t eyes for nobody but her,
gaddin’ off every day, or ridin’ to town. I should most expect her beau
would make some kind of a row over it.”

For they did “gad off” every pleasant day, sometimes to the grove to
plan, but more often to the minister’s. There Chee would practise on
Mr. Green’s violin, while Gertrude read or talked with Mrs. Green.

A few days before the concert, Mr. Farrar met them that he might hear,
for the last time, Chee’s piece.

“Cousin Herman, if I play very well indeed, will you please say ‘yes’
to something?”

“That’s rather broad,” replied the gentleman; “suppose I can’t say
‘yes.’”

“Oh, but I know you can, just as well as not.”

“What is it about?”

Chee flushed a little, but answered, smilingly, “Clothes.”

“Ho, ho, that’s it! Well, I guess I can go it.”

Mr. Farrar considered himself an apt student of human nature. “It’s
only natural the child should have a little pride. It’s a good thing
Gertrude intends to see to a gown for her.” So said the young man to
himself, little doubting the exact nature of Chee’s request.

Satisfied with his promise to say “yes,” the little girl began to play
her chosen piece.

It had taken so long to make a selection from her old pieces, Cousin
Herman had bought several new ones--marvels of creation they were to
Chee. “Fixed up with the baby songs all in,” as she styled the turns
and trills. She had tried to play true to the notes, but it was a hard
task. To-day as she was conscientiously measuring them out, he left the
room a moment to speak with the minister. Returning, he was surprised
at the progress she had made in his absence. Thinking his presence had
hindered her, he stole softly to the door.

With a listening expression on her face, Chee was slowly pacing the
floor. The sheet of music lay on the table, face down. Undoubtedly, as
Mr. Farrar recalled the selection, it was the one she was playing--but
how changed! It seemed to have been but the framework for the little
artist to build upon.

She finished, and brushing the damp hair from her warm forehead, looked
up. Cousin Herman stood in the doorway. Chee glanced at the neglected
sheet of music with a guilty look. “I forgot, Cousin Herman, I really
did,” she explained, hurriedly.

“I guess you needn’t bother with the notes. I see you have the melody
in your head.” He tried to speak unconcernedly.

Chee was relieved. “I’m ever so glad. You don’t know how much easier it
will be.”

“After you have a teacher I suppose it will be necessary to tie you
down to accurate reading, but until then we won’t spoil your own way.”

The minister came in just then, followed by his wife and Gertrude. “Is
the lesson over?” he asked.

“Cousin Herman has got to say ‘yes’ now.”

“Say ‘yes?’ What to?”

“That’s just what he hasn’t been told,” replied Mr. Farrar.

Going to him, Chee drew down his head, that she might whisper in his
ear. He looked perplexed. A private consultation followed, much to the
amusement of the others in the room.

At first he seemed hard to persuade, but finally yielded, and Chee left
him with a satisfied, “That’s a good Cousin Herman.”

“Gertrude,” he said at parting, “you needn’t order Chee’s dress; that
matter has already been attended to.”

Gertrude was not only astonished, she was disappointed, and started to
speak, then checked herself.

“After all, Herman must know what he is about. I’ll leave it to him.”
Gertrude had learned one lesson; it could not be forgotten soon.




CHAPTER XIII.


The day of the concert smilingly dawned.

At breakfast, Uncle Reuben surprised them by saying, “I’m going over
the river to-day, Mean. Don’t you want to go ’long, and stop to
George’s?”

Aunt Mean hesitated.

“You kin wear your best bunnet, so’s to stop to the concert on the way
back.”

“Reuben Whittaker! you’re not going to blow in a single cent on any
concert, and you know it. If Gertrude is foolish ’nough to go and take
Chee, that ain’t none of my business.” Aunt Mean looked toward her
nieces as she spoke, but the cousins’ eyes were fixed upon their plates.

“Why, Mean,” said Uncle Reuben, mildly, “the minister says the hull
town is going to turn out. Even--”

“When did you see the minister?” interrupted his sister.

“Even Miss Flanigin sent for her sister to take keer of the young’ns,”
continued Uncle Reuben, without notice of any question. “I never
reckoned on our being behind the Flanigins.”

“Humph! those Flanigins,” was Aunt Mean’s only comment. But Gertrude
noticed, as they drove away, a bonnet with a purple poppy had won the
day.

“What could have possessed Uncle Reuben to take her off to-day, of all
days?” gleefully questioned Chee.

“Everything is turning out just right, that’s a fact,” replied her
cousin.

A thought of half suspicion came to Chee. “You don’t suppose--” she
began, impressively, when Gertrude gave a little cry of pleasure,
saying, “If here doesn’t come Herman, the old dear, and the house all
to ourselves.”

What a day of it they had! With only her two good friends to watch
her, Chee forgot her usual reserve, and quite surprised them with her
happy chatter. Without the restraint of Aunt Mean’s practical presence,
some of the child’s queer fancies and odd expressions crept into her
talk. Until then, Gertrude had but half realized how truly the little
cousin’s nature was made up of the sensitive perceptions and legendary
instincts of her mother’s people.

Toward evening a thunder-storm threatened. The three were sitting in
Aunt Mean’s plant-room at the time.

“Grandfather is speaking,” said Chee, pleasantly, as the first distant
mutterings of thunder were heard. Cousin Herman looked up questioningly.

“Who?” asked Gertrude.

“Grandfather--don’t you hear him?”

Just then a sharp clap rang through the air. Gertrude held her fingers
to her ears.

“That was M’dessun,” said Chee. Then noticing her companions’
bewildered glances, added, “It’s very easy to know his voice from
grandfather’s other sons’--he talks so angrily.”

The thunder still roared. Mr. Farrar closed the plant-room door. “I
guess we hadn’t better sit out here for awhile,” he said, gathering up
Gertrude’s books. “We can come back, it won’t last long, I think.”

“Don’t go! What made you shut the door? I love to hear them,” and Chee
stepped out into the rising storm fearlessly, as though the sky had
been all sunshine.

“Come in, Chee. Oh, do come in!” cried Gertrude, pale with alarm.

The child ran quickly, and throwing her arms around her cousin, asked,
“Why, are you sick? What is the matter? Don’t you like Thunder? He is
our grandfather, you know.”

“Is the girl crazy?” asked Mr. Farrar.

“I think she refers to some legend,” answered Gertrude. Chee had always
been interesting; her personality was felt, even when she was her
usual, reserved little self; to-day, all embarrassment cast away, she
was fascinating.

“We don’t know about it, Birdie; can’t you tell us?”

“I forgot you didn’t know,” replied Chee. Then as if in penitence, she
added, “I’ll close the door again, if you’d rather, Cousin Gertrude.”

“No, leave it open. The storm is going around us. It will be pleasanter
soon. Now tell us what you meant by ‘Grandfather.’”

So Chee began,--the rain dripping from the roof, and the fresh,
purified air blowing in at the wide-swung door,--“Why, as I said,
Thunder is our grandfather. He has three boys. That loud, sharp sound
that hurt Cousin Gertrude’s ears was the baby; he is cross and cruel.
But grandfather will never allow him to harm us. Grandfather lets him
kill animals sometimes.

“His other sons are kind, gentle boys; they never do any harm, but cool
the air instead, and make the earth fresh again. Thunder that just
threatens and mutters is grandfather’s voice.”

“What about lightning?” asked Cousin Herman, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Is that kind and good?”

Chee laughed. “Lightning? She’s--well, she’s his wife.” They all
laughed at her answer, and Mr. Farrar mischievously glanced at
Gertrude. Chee noticed that she blushed, but took courage and added,
“There’s an old story about grandfather; would you like to hear it?”

Of course they were only too glad to keep her talking, so, clasping her
hands around one knee, she commenced the story--her low, dreamy voice
fitting well with the tale.

“Well, once, years and years ago,[2] there were two Indian homes.
In each home there was a beautiful daughter; they were lovely, good
friends, but they couldn’t see each other very often, for their wigwams
were such a long ways apart. But one awful hot day, one of them asked
her mother if she couldn’t go and see the other girl, and her mother
said ‘no,’ ’cause she was so pretty. But the girl teased so hard she
had to let her go.

“She hadn’t gone very far before a tall man came and walked beside her,
and said such nice things to her she forgot all about where she was
going, until she found right in front of them a big rock with a hole in
it. The man said, ‘This is where I live. Won’t you come in?’

“She was afraid of the dark, so she wouldn’t go. But he coaxed, and
finally she said she’d go in if he’d go first. So he went, but just the
minute he got inside, he turned right into an ugly old Wi-will-mecq,
and she was scared most to pieces.”

“May we ask what a ‘Wi-will-mecq’ is?” asked Mr. Farrar.

[Illustration: “‘I’VE SAVED YOU FROM THE GREAT WI-WILL-MECQ’”]

“It’s a great, horrid worm, and the girl tried to run away from it,
but just then an awful loud thundering was heard, and she didn’t know
anything more until she opened her eyes in a great big room with an old
man in it.

“He said, ‘I’m your grandfather. I’ve saved you from the great
Wi-will-mecq.’ Then he showed it to her, out-doors, all chopped up in a
hundred little pieces. He told the girl she must give him a smoke when
he asked for it, to show she was grateful. Then he sent her home safe
and sound. Do you like that story?”

“Very much,” answered Cousin Herman. “But I can see from her face that
Gertie is wondering how in the world the girl could give old Thunder a
smoke.”

“The Indians used always to do that after grandfather was so good to
one of their people. They build a fire out-doors every time grandfather
calls for it, and put some tobacco in it; it goes up in the smoke, and
so he gets it.[3] Now you see I couldn’t be afraid, could I?”

Cousin Gertrude patted Chee’s braids. Mr. Farrar whistled softly to
himself. Chee noticed that neither answered her question.

“Well, anyway,” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing, “you can ask just as
many people as you like, and every one will tell you that there never
was an Indian or anything he owned killed in a thunder-storm.[4] My
daddy asked lots of wise people, and none ever could tell of a single
one.”

Mr. Farrar could no longer whistle, his lips were trying to smile. With
a smothered “Ha, ha,” he hurried out to feed his horse.

Chee was very much displeased. She went to the open door, and leaning
her head against the casement, looked over the freshened fields. Before
long, Gertrude joined her. Drawing the little girl to her, she too
stood watching the landscape.

“Birdie,” she asked, at length, then hesitated, as though loath to go
on, “do you honestly believe that pretty little story?”

Chee turned her face toward her questioner, all resentment gone--that
soft light in her eyes, only there when she was deeply moved.

“Cousin Gertrude, dear,” she answered, looking clearly into the
other’s face, “don’t worry. I know what you mean. Yes, and no. For the
time I was telling it I believed it. But now when you ask me, I know
quite well that Our Father sends the thunder, just as He sends the rain
when we need it. Daddy told me so. But anyway, I shouldn’t be afraid
because it’s just the same. He won’t let anything hurt me. Daddy told
me that, and I think I should know it, anyway. Sometimes when the
breeze blows softly against my cheek, it tells me so, and if ever I
forget, the stars at night tell me how wrong it is to fear Our Father
who loves us so.”

Cousin Gertrude made no reply, she only held the little one closer.
Chee was not a heathen, but she was certainly a strange child.




CHAPTER XIV.


Evening came. Mr. Farrar drove Gertrude and Chee to the minister’s
home, and then hurried to the hotel. Everything looked favorable; the
city musicians had arrived, and the night promised to be perfect.

Gertrude was already dressed for the entertainment, but Chee still wore
her pink gingham. “Come, Chee, you won’t have any more than time,” she
urged, anxious to know the contents of a box Chee had brought. “Don’t
you want some help?”

“I’ve tried it on before,” answered the little girl, as she tugged
up-stairs with her package.

Eight o’clock drew near. The street in front of the hall was filled
with farmers’ vehicles and passing townsfolk. Inside was the important
bustle of ushers rushing to and fro, and the sound of instruments being
tuned.

As the moments passed, the throng grew dense. Fans seemed to sway the
audience back and forth. At last the curtains rose--the house was
packed.

The chorus of white-clad children lifted its voice. It was a good
chorus--the finest of which Chesterfield had ever boasted. Sadie’s
grandpa was satisfied. The village philosopher’s psychological chart
was being revealed to him. Even the doctor was elated. Beside him, sat
“Cit’zen P’liteness,” which coincidence might have been fortunate for
the boy, who more than once, in extreme excitement, choked and nearly
swallowed his gum.

The musicians did their best. The people demanded encore after encore.
It grew late. The enthusiasm lulled. Little children slept in their
parents’ arms; here and there a fretful one cried out.

A hush fell over the stage, and people waited uneasily; children became
still more impatient; the very air grew intense. A young lady near the
front was faint--it was the one with blue eyes and golden hair. Soon a
soft step was heard. All eyes were again fastened on the stage.

A small, brown-faced girl stood near the centre. She was dressed in
gay Indian clothes; her long black unbraided hair fell nearly to her
knees; bright beads were twined about her neck and arms; bare ankles
showed above wee moccasins. In one hand she carried a small red violin
and a long bow.

The people were too much interested to applaud. All strove for a better
view of the dark, flushed face before them.

Catching sight of the golden-haired young woman, the child’s lips
parted in a smile. Caressingly she put the violin under her arm, and
nodded encouragement. The white face of her friend banished, for a
moment, her own timidity.

The audience took this act of recognition to themselves, shouting and
clapping again and again. The small face grew frightened, but the sight
of a certain purple poppy, nervously bobbing among the sea of heads,
restored its bravery. The little maid tucked the instrument beneath her
chin. The confusion ceased.

[Illustration: “IT WAS AS THOUGH ALL THE PLAINTIVE STORY OF A DYING
RACE HAD BEEN STORED IN THAT LITTLE RED CASE”]

With her eyes uplifted, as though listening, she drew the bow
across the strings--first tremblingly, then lovingly, and, finally,
triumphantly. Once only her eyes lowered, sought the purple poppy,
and lifted again. With more and more feeling came the music. It was
as though all the plaintive story of a dying race had been stored in
that little red case. Their hardships and sorrows; their wild life
of the woods, the lakes, and the prairies; their weird chants and
incantations; their joys and pinings now sobbed, now sung at the touch
of small brown fingers.

Not a person stirred; even the children grew intent; for a moment the
fans were poised; breathlessly the people listened. The music ceased.
Tears were on cheeks fair and seamed.

A man appeared before the platform. It was Mr. Green, the minister.
“Our little townswoman has been requested to render, as a special
favor, that beloved melody, ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee.’” He spoke with
earnestness, and retired immediately.

A strange expression came over the small musician’s face, a look so
reverent, so pure, that the audience leaned forward in their seats.
With an upward, yearning glance the child began to play.

If before, the dazzling, fantastic garb of the player had blended with
the dreamy legends of her tender music, not so now; none looked at the
girl save unconsciously to watch her face. Each person felt alone in
holy communion with the music which descended as from heaven itself to
the depths of their souls.

These strains spoke not of the forest, nor of the sea. They rung out
in condemnation; they plead with tender reproachfulness; they swept
through each soul, causing it to vibrate the notes in very sympathy
with themselves, but it was always “Thou and me,” to each heart the
world was not.

The notes died away. A great sigh arose from the audience. The curtain
fell, and quietly the concourse of people dissolved. There was no
crowding, no laughter; there was little talk. As from a temple the
people passed slowly out.

“Was it the instrument? Who can tell?” The clergyman asked himself that
question. Cousin Herman asked it. Many others queried over it.

It may have been. Who can tell? Strangely enough, no one ventured to
ask the little half-breed. Had they done so, she doubtless would have
answered, in her reverent way, “It was not me. It was just Our Father,”
surely adding, “and Daddy Joe’s fiddle.”




CHAPTER XV.


Time has passed. Though Aunt Mean and Uncle Reuben still live at the
Bend, years have left their traces. They rest now through the day in
their armchairs. Their faces are happy--far happier than in the old
hard-working days.

Aunt Mean’s strong-minded features soften as she talks to Reuben,
through his ear-trumpet, of the long ago.

“You were always a good woman, Mean,” he answers, soothingly. How love
forgets its hardships and recounts its joys.

“I wasn’t no heathen, brother, but I was only half converted until that
night.”

“We was all revived,” gently replies Uncle Reuben, “even the minister.
Bless his soul, he’s got his reward for goodness now.”

“Hush! she’s coming.”

Footsteps sound upon the stairs. A sweet, low voice mingles with the
Irish brogue of Biddy in the kitchen.

Soon a slight, middle-aged woman, dressed in black, enters the room.
Her face tells of grief borne patiently, of joy from a trustful heart.
Mrs. Green brings an open letter.

“From the children?”

“Yes, auntie. The little ones are all well. Herman has promised them a
trip to the farm at Easter. Gertrude’s cold is better. They enclosed a
letter from Chee.”

And so together they sit in the lamplight, lingering over their weekly
pleasure--the children’s letter.

       *       *       *       *       *

Most old places have their ghost stories. The Whittakers’ at the Bend
is not an exception. Long ago the incident happened, but to this day
neither of the old people are fond of the attic. Even the creaking
stairway brings to Aunt Mean’s mind sad strains of music.

“Of course it was my guilty conscience, but, that night when I got up
with a cramp, and heard the same old tune that poor Joe played the day
before he died, it seemed as though my bones was frozen stiff.

“If I’d only done as you done, Reuben, and gone straight to the
minister’s, it would have saved me nights of agony. Lots of times I
used to hear them sounds after all but me was sound asleep. But I never
dared get up. I’d hide my head underneath the bedclothes, and pray the
Lord if He would only forgive me my hardness against poor Joe and his
child, I’d do anything in the world.

“Ah, them was hard days, and that was a strange night, when I see the
child and the fiddle on the platform, and the hull thing come over me
like a streak of lightning.”

“’Twas the Lord’s way, Mean, my girl, and we won’t find no fault.”

“No, Reuben, and though you ain’t the one to say it, in your heart
you’re mighty glad I’m a different woman from them days. I say it
myself, as oughtn’t to.”

“You’re not the only one, Mean. ’Twas all the Lord’s doin’s.”

And Chee? Few know her by that name, or even the story of her birth and
childhood.

In a far-off city, surrounded by luxury that wealth may buy, amid
flattery that fame may bring, a certain celebrated musician still hears
the echo of a little child’s plaintive prayer: “And if Thou do, I’ll do
something for Thee sometime, only I can’t think of anything now. Thy
kingdom come. Amen.”

It is Sabbath Day. As the twilight is falling over the streets of that
far-off city, you may enter the wide doors of a great building.

Many people of different nationalities reverently tread its dim aisles.
The turmoil of life is forgotten in the hush of this peacefulness.

While you wait, a strain of tender music breathes softly through the
place. The sounds scarcely break the silence. Stillness itself is given
a voice. The faces about you brighten. Bitter lines soften; bowed
shoulders straighten.

For one glorified hour you listen. And when the last evangel note has
trembled its message to every part of the vast room, even from the
frescoed dome to the deepest places in the hearts of the listeners, you
silently turn away.

People of different races, speaking different tongues,--each soul with
its own burden, griefs, or sins,--have all been lifted nearer heaven by
the same voice of lingering music.

Is it a wonder that no other instrument, however precious, can say to
weary hearts, “He is sure to have heard; it will be all right pretty
soon,” as Daddy Joe’s fiddle?


THE END.




FOOTNOTES:


[1] Culloo is a mythical bird so large as to hide the sun when he flies
before it.

[2] An abbreviation of a familiar Indian legend.

[3] Mentioned by A. L. Alger in “Indian Tents.”

[4] Universally believed among Indians.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.





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