They would all be sorry when Monsieur pleaded weariness and bade them
good-night. Sometimes his music so moved the old Frenchman that the tears
would gather in his faded blue eyes and steal down his powdered cheeks;
and then, like as not, he was apt to break off suddenly, drop violin and
bow upon his knees, and exclaim, "_Ah! la musique! mon Dieu, mon Dieu!
elle me rappelle ma jeunesse. Et maintenant--et maintenant_!" And then,
brushing away the tears he would rise, make them a courtly bow, and hurry
out of the room.

Dan alone did not fall under his spell. He and Tom would often talk of
their strange guest after they were gone to bed in the great chamber over
the dining-room.

"I don't know what it is," Dan said one night, "but I am sorry he ever
came to the Inn; I wish he would go away."

"How absurd, old boy!" protested Tom. "He has saved our lives this
frightful winter. I never knew your mother to be so cheerful and
contented; Nancy seems to adore him, and you yourself are making the most
of his fiddle lessons."

"I know," Dan replied, "all that is true, but it is only half the truth.
Mother's cheerfulness is costing me a pretty penny, for I can't keep her
from ordering the most expensive things,--wines, and the like,--that we
can't afford. Maybe Nance adores him, as you say,--she is such a strange
wild child; but I have never known her to be so unlike herself. We used
to have good times together--Nance and I. But this winter I see nothing
of her at all." For the moment Dan forgot his complaint in the tender
thought of his foster-sister. "It probably is absurd," he added
presently, "but I don't like it; I don't like him, Tom! He plays the