He caught her hand. Flushing so that her plain face became almost pretty, she yielded--for the hand was insistent. Miss Ellen leaned bewildered against the door which led to the sitting-room where the old piano stood. Her nephew looked at her again, with the eyes which the Chesters' guest had somewhat incoherently described as “Irish-Scotch-barbarian.” He said, “Please, Aunt Ellen, there's a good fellow,” at which Mr. Burns, Senior, chuckled under his breath; for anything less like that of a “good fellow” was never seen than Sister Ellen's prim little personality. Miss Ellen went protestingly to the piano. Was it right, her manner said, to be performing in this idiotic manner at this unholy hour of three o'clock in the morning--in a sick-room? It mattered little whether Miss Mathewson could or could not dance the “Irish Washerwoman,” or any other antic dance improvised to that live air; she had only to yield herself to Red Pepper Burns's hands and steps, and let him disport himself around her. A most startlingly hilarious performance was immediately and effectively produced. At the height of it, a door across the sitting-room, which commanded a strip of the bedroom beyond, opened cautiously and Zeke Crandall's eye glued itself to the aperture, an eye astonished beyond belief. “If that there Red ain't a-cuttin' up jest exactly as he used to when he was a boy--and his pa and ma sick a-bed! If 'twas anybody but Red I'd say he was crazy.” Then he caught the sound of a laugh from lips he had not heard laugh like that for a year--a chuckling, delighted laugh, only slightly asthmatic and wholly unrestrained. He began to laugh himself. “If folks round here could see Red Burns now they'd never believe the stories about his gettin' to be such a darned successful man at his business,” he reflected. “Of all the goin's on! Look at him now! An' that nurse! An' Miss Ellen a-playin' for 'em! Oh, my eye!” Songs followed--college songs, popular airs, opera bits--all delivered in' a resounding barytone and accompanied by thumping chords improvised by the performer. Out through the open windows they floated, and one astonished villages driving by to take the early train caught the exultant strains: “Oh, see dat watermillion a-smilin' fro' de fence, How I wish dat watermillion it was mine. Oh, de white folks must be foolish, Dey need a heap of sense, Or dey'd nebber leave it dar upon de vine! Oh, de ham-bone am sweet, An' de bacon am good, An' de 'possum fat am berry, berry fine; But gib me, yes, gib me, Oh, how I wish you would, Dat watermillion growin' on de vine!” Before they knew it the early morning light was creeping in at the small-paned windows. Burns consulted his watch.