[Illustration:  Tail piece]

The Ball

[Illustration:  Vignette Initial IT]

It was evening—­dark, cool and starry.  The earth and water lay hidden in the dusky gloom.  Above, the stars were at their brightest.  They gleamed and glowed, flashed and scintillated, like jewels fresh from the case.  Their fires were many-colored—­orange, yellow, and red; and here and there a great diamond, fastened into the zone of night, sent out its intense, colorless brilliancy.  Through all the air silence reigned.  The winds had died away, and the waters had settled to repose.  No gurgle along the shore:  no splash against the great logs that made the wharf; no bird of night calling to its mate.  Outside all was still.  Nature had drawn the curtains around her couch, and, screened from sight, lay in profound repose.

Within, all was light, and bustle, and gayety.  From every window lights streamed and flashed.  The large parlors were alive with moving forms.  The piano, whose white keys were swept by whiter hands, tinkled and rang in liveliest measure.  The dance was at its height; and the very floor seemed vibrant with the pressure of lively feet.  The dancers advanced, retired, wheeled and swayed in easy circles, swept up and down, and across the floor in graceful lines.

Amid the happy scene the Old Trapper stood, his stalwart frame erect as in his prime; while his great, strong face fairly beamed in benediction upon the dancers.  For his nature had within its depths that fine capacity which enabled it to receive the brightness of surrounding happiness and reflect it again.

It was a study to watch his face and mark the passage of changeful moods; surprise, delight, and broad, warm-hearted humor, as they came to and played across the responsive features.  The man of the woods, of the lonely shore, and of silence, seemed perfectly at home amid the noise and commotion of human merry-making.

At last the music died away.  The dancers checked their feet.  The lady who had been playing the piano rose wearily from the instrument and joined a group of friends.  The music was not adequate.  The notes were too sharp; too isolate; they did not flow together.  There was no sweep and swing, nor suavity of connected progress in the strains.  The instrument could not lift the dancers up and swing them onward through the mazy motions.

“I tell ye, Henry,” said the Old Trapper, as he turned to Herbert who was standing by his side, “the pianner isn’t the thing to dance by, for sartin.  It tinkles and chippers too much; it rattles and clicks.  It don’t git hold of the feelin’s, Henry;—­it don’t start the blood in yer veins, nor set yer skin tinglin’, nor make the feet dance agin yer will.  It’s good enough in its way, no doubt; but it sartinly isn’t the thing to lift the young folks up and swing ’em round.  The fiddle is the thing;—­yis, the fiddle is sartinly the thing.  I would give a good deal if we had a fiddle here to-night, for I see the boys and girls miss it.  Lord-a-massy! how it would set ’em a-goin’ if we only had a fiddle here.”