Somehow Yankee Doodle wavered off into various other airs quite unknown to the dancers, all swelling free and with a bold sweep of sound, as if the musician improvised as much in his music as the company certainly did in their dancing. But it was the more exhilarating for that, and never did enjoyment run higher or mirth gush out more cheerily. Mary Fuller had made her way quietly into the barn, and seating herself by uncle Nathan, watched the bright revel as it went on, filled with a pleasant sort of wonder that anything could be so happy as these gay revellers seemed. Once or twice she was asked to dance, but shrunk sensitively from the proposition. Salina stood erect by uncle Nathan, with her arms folded and her head on one side, filled with burning indignation against mankind in general, and dear old uncle Nathan in particular, because she was left a solitary wall-flower planted in the very calf-skin shoes which she had expected to exhibit, at least in a French Four, with that rotund gentleman. There was a change in the music. The strings trembled and thrilled a moment, then out came a wild gush of melody that made the very dancers pause and hold their breath to listen. Mary Fuller started to her feet one moment. The color left her lips, and then back it came, firing her face with scarlet to the brows. "Uncle Nat, uncle Nat," she said, seizing him by the arm, "that music!--I've heard it before--listen--listen!" She sat down trembling from head to foot, but her grey eyes flashed from beneath their drooping lids, and her mouth grew tremulous with agitation. When the air was finished, for it died off in a few plaintive notes, as if the violinist had entirely forgotten the dancers, Mary arose and crept softly toward the musician, till she could obtain a view of his face. By the stray candles that wavered to and fro among the evergreens, she could dimly see the white outline of those pure features and the mysterious beauty of the eyes. Now her countenance, hitherto varying and anxious, settled into a warm flush of joy; she drew close to the musician, and resting one hand on the back of his chair, placed the other softly on his arm. "Joseph--Joseph Esmond," she said, in a voice that scarcely rose above a whisper. "Is it you, Joseph?" He started and turned his eyes toward her. "I know the touch of your hand, Mary Fuller; and your voice is full of the old music. Where am I? How does it happen that you and I meet here?" "I live here--I have friends, oh! such kind friends. And you, Joseph, how came you here? Where is your father--that dear, good father? Surely he is well." "My father," said the youth, bowing his head, with a look of touching sorrow, "my father is dead--I am alone in the world, but for this!" He touched his violin with a mournful smile. "Then you and I are orphans alike." But she added more cheerfully, "we are not alone, you have your music, and your art, and I have my, my--oh, I have many things."