"Well, Madelon," said David Hautville, with a firmer laying on of his heavy hand on his daughter's shoulder, "ye've been a good daughter and sister, and we're all of us glad you've got over this last foolishness, and we don't lay it up against ye, and--we'll all miss ye when ye're gone." Madelon moved quietly away from her father's roughly tender hand.

"I thought maybe the Widow Scoville would be willing to come here and live," said she.

"She's a good cook and a good housekeeper.

I'm going to see her about it." "Well, we'll see," said David Hautville, huskily--"we'll see." He turned away, and looked irresolutely at the shelf whereon his pipe lay, at the wedding-silk on the chair, at his great boots in the corner at the outer door, then at his bass-viol leaning in the corner which the dresser formed against the wall, and a light of decision flashed into his eyes.
He drew his old arm-chair nearer the fire, carried the viol over to it, set it between his knees, flung an arm around its neck and began to play.

His great chest heaved tenderly over it; its sweetly sonorous voice spoke to his soul.