In spite of all there was to eat in that mighty first course of turkey and stuffing and mashed white potatoes and sirup-browned sweet potatoes, and every possible accompaniment of gravy and vegetable and relish, not to mention such coffee as none of them had ever drunk, it all disappeared with astonishing rapidity down the throats of the guests.  How, indeed, can one mince and play with his food when he and his wife have not in their lives tasted so many good things all at once, and when both have been prepared for the feast by many weeks and months—­and years—­of living upon boiled potatoes with a bit of salt pork, or even upon bread and molasses, when times were hard?  Brown’s neighbours were not of the very poorest, by any means, but all were thriftily accustomed to self-denial, and there is no flavour to any dainty like that of having seldom tasted but of having longed for it all one’s life.

When the second course had come and gone—­it was composed entirely of pies, but of such pies!—­Brown surprised Mrs. Kelcey by going to a cupboard and bringing out a final treat unsuspected by her.  A great basket of fruit, oranges and bananas and grapes, flanked by a big bowl of nuts cunningly set with clusters of raisins, made them all exclaim.  Happily, they had reached the exclaiming stage, no longer afraid of their host or of one another.

“It’s reckless with his money he is, Patsy,” whispered Mrs. Kelcey to her husband.  “It’ll take a power of it to pay for all o’ thim, an’ fruit so dear.”

“Whist, he knows what he’s about,” returned Patrick Kelcey, uninclined to remonstrate with any man for giving him that unaccustomed and delightful feeling that his vest buttons must be surreptitiously unloosed or he would burst them off.  He helped himself lavishly as he spoke.

By and by, when all had regretfully declined so much as another raisin—­“Now we must have some music!” cried Brown.  “Tim, did you bring your fiddle?”

Tim Lukens nodded.  Carpentry was Tim’s vocation, but fiddling was his avocation and dear delight.  He was presently fiddling away, while the company sat about, completely relaxed in spirit, and Mrs. Kelcey and Mrs. Murdison hustled the table clear of dishes, refusing sternly Brown’s eager offer to help them.  And now came the best time of all.  Tim played all the old tunes, and when he struck into “Kate Kearney” the company was electrified to hear a rich and vibrant voice take up the words of the song and sing them through to the end.

Sitting carelessly on his pine-bottomed chair—­it was one from the Kelcey house—­one hand in his pocket, his heavy hair tossed back and his lips smiling, Brown’s splendid tones rang through the room and held his listeners enthralled.  Never had they heard singing like that.  They could have no possible notion of the quality of the voice to which they listened, but they enjoyed its music so thoroughly that the moment the song was ended they