"But you cannot dance yourself, sir," said she.

"I have danced all I want to to-night," he replied, and began tuning
the fiddle.

"I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, sir," Madelon said, and got her
hood and cloak from the back of the gallery with no more parley.

The young man cast admiring glances after her as she went out, with
her young brother at her heels.

"I'm going home with you," Richard said to her as they went down the
gallery stairs.

"Not a step," said she. "You've just been after the fiddle, and
they're going to dance the Fisher's Hornpipe next."

"You'll be afraid in that lonesome stretch after you leave the
village."

"Afraid!" There was a ring of despairing scorn in the girl's voice,
as if she faced already such woe that the supposition of new terror
was an absurdity.

They had come down to the ball-room floor, and were standing directly
in front of the musicians' gallery. The young fiddler, Jim Otis,
leaned over and looked at them.

"I don't care," said Richard, "I won't let you go alone unless you