n' Garters! What next? Here, child, take her and make her
hum!"

Presently, the preliminary squeaks and discords, incident to "tuning
up," were over and Dorothy began a simple melody that made all her
hearers quietly listen. One after another the familiar things which
Aunt Betty and her guardian loved best came into her mind; and
remembering the beloved scenes where she had last played them, her
feeling of homesickness and longing made her render them so movingly
that soon the little widow was crying and Robin's sensitive face
showed signs of his own tears following hers.

The tempting supper had remained untouched thus far. But now the
sight of his guests' emotion, and a warning huskiness in his own
throat, brought John Gilpin to his feet.

"This isn't no mournin' party, little miss, and you quit, you quit
that right square off. Understand? Something lively's more to this
occasion than all that solemcholy 'Old Lang Synin', 'or 'Wearin' Awa''
business. Touch us off a 'Highland Fling,' and if that t'other girl,
was gigglin' so a few minutes gone, 'll do me the honor"--here the old
fellow bowed low to Winifred--"I'll show you how the figger should be
danced. I can cut a pigeon-wing yet, with the supplest."

Away rolled the table into the further corner of the room: even the
Dame merely moving her own chair aside. For she had watched the
widow's face and grieved to see it growing sad again, where a little
while before it had been cheerful.

Dorothy understood, and swiftly changed from the "Land O' the Leal" to
the gay dance melody demanded. Then laughter came back, for it was so
funny to see the farmer's exaggerated flourish as he bowed again to
Winifred and gallantly led her to the middle of the kitchen floor, now
cleared for action.

Then followed the merriest jig that ever was danced in that old
cottage, or many another. The cuts and the capers, the flings and
pigeon-wings that bald-headed John Gilpin displayed were little short
of marvelous. Forgotten was the dragging foot that now soared as high
as the other, while perspiration streamed from his wrinkled face,
flushed to an apoplectic crimson by this violent exercise.

Winifred was no whit behind. Away flung her jacket and then her hat.
Off flew the farmer's smock, always worn for a coat and to protect the
homespun suit beneath. The pace grew mad and madder, following the
movement of the old fiddle which Dorothy played to its swiftest.
Robin's blue eyes grew