Madelon turned her beautiful, proud face towards the stranger, and
did not notice Richard at all. "Thank you, sir," said she, inclining
her long neck; "but I care not to dance--I'd as lief lilt."

"But," said the strange young man, pressing forward impetuously and
gazing into her black eyes, "you look tired; 'tis a shame to work you
so."

"I rest between the dances, and I am not tired," said Madelon,
coldly.

"I beg you to let me fiddle for the rest of the ball," pleaded the
young man. "Let me fiddle while you dance; you may be sure I'll
fiddle my best for you."

A tender note came into his voice, and, curiously enough, Madelon did
not resent it, although she had never seen him before and he had no
right. She looked up in his bright fair face with sudden hesitation,
and his blue eyes bent half humorously, half lovingly upon her. She
had a fierce desire to get away from this place, out into the night,
and home. "I do not care to dance," said she, falteringly; "but I
could go home, if you felt disposed to fiddle."

"Then go home and rest," cried the stranger, brightly. "'Tis a strain
on the throat to lilt so long, and you cannot put in a new string as
you can in a fiddle."

With that the young man came forward to the front of the little
gallery, and Madelon yielded up her place hesitatingly.