behind the dimity curtain,
watched him flinging the snow aside like spray, his handsome face
glowing like a rose.

"I suppose he is going to the party at the tavern to-night," Lot
murmured. Suddenly his face took on a piteous, wistful look like a
woman's; tears stood in his blue eyes. He doubled over with a violent
fit of coughing, then went back to his chair and his book.

This party had been the talk of the village for several weeks. It was
to be an unusually large one. People were coming from all the towns
roundabout. Burr Gordon had been one of the ringleaders of the
enterprise. All day long he worked over the preparations, dragging
out evergreen garlands from under the snow in the woods, cutting
hemlock boughs, and trimming the ball-room in the tavern. Towards
night he heard a piece of news which threatened to bring everything
to a standstill. The dusk was thickening fast; Burr and the two young
men who were working with him were hurrying to finish the decorations
before candlelight when Richard Hautville came in. Burr started when
he saw him. He looked so like his sister in the dim light that he
thought for a moment she was there.

Richard did not notice him at all. He hustled by him roughly and
approached the other two young men. "Louis can't fiddle to-night," he
announced, curtly. The young men stared at him in dismay.

"What's the trouble?" asked Burr.

"He's hurt his arm," replied Richard; but he still addressed the
other two, and made as if he were not answering Burr.

"Broke it?" asked one of the others.

"No; sprained it. He was clearing the snow off the barn roof and the
ladder fell. It's all black-and-blue, and he can't lift it enough to
fiddle to-night."

The three young men looked at each other.

"What's going to be done?" said one.

"I don't know," said Burr. "There's Davy Barrett, over to the Four
Corners--I suppose we might get him if we sent right over."

"You can't get him," said Richard Hautville, still addressing the
other two, as if they had spoken. "Louis said you couldn't. His
wife's got the typhus-fever, and he's up nights watching with
her--won't let anybody else. You can't get him."

"We can't have a ball without a fiddler," one young man said,
soberly.

"Maybe Madelon would lilt for the dancing," Burr Gordon said; and
then he colored furiously, as if he had startled himself in saying
it.

The boy turned on him. "Maybe you think my sister will lilt for you
to dance, Bur