This party had been the talk of the village for several weeks.  It was to be an unusually large one.  People were coming from all the towns roundabout.  Burr Gordon had been one of the ringleaders of the enterprise.  All day long he worked over the preparations, dragging out evergreen garlands from under the snow in the woods, cutting hemlock boughs, and trimming the ball-room in the tavern.  Towards night he heard a piece of news which threatened to bring everything to a standstill.  The dusk was thickening fast; Burr and the two young men who were working with him were hurrying to finish the decorations before candlelight when Richard Hautville came in.  Burr started when he saw him.  He looked so like his sister in the dim light that he thought for a moment she was there.

Richard did not notice him at all.  He hustled by him roughly and approached the other two young men.  “Louis can’t fiddle to-night,” he announced, curtly.  The young men stared at him in dismay.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Burr.

“He’s hurt his arm,” replied Richard; but he still addressed the other two, and made as if he were not answering Burr.

“Broke it?” asked one of the others.

“No; sprained it.  He was clearing the snow off the barn roof and the ladder fell.  It’s all black-and-blue, and he can’t lift it enough to fiddle to-night.”

The three young men looked at each other.

“What’s going to be done?” said one.

“I don’t know,” said Burr.  “There’s Davy Barrett, over to the Four Corners—­I suppose we might get him if we sent right over.”

“You can’t get him,” said Richard Hautville, still addressing the other two, as if they had spoken.  “Louis said you couldn’t.  His wife’s got the typhus-fever, and he’s up nights watching with her—­won’t let anybody else.  You can’t get him.”

“We can’t have a ball without a fiddler,” one young man said, soberly.

“Maybe Madelon would lilt for the dancing,” Burr Gordon said; and then he colored furiously, as if he had startled himself in saying it.

The boy turned on him.  “Maybe you think my sister will lilt for you to dance, Burr Gordon!” cried he, and his face blazed white in Burr’s eyes, and he shook his slender brown fist.

“Nobody wants your sister to lilt if she isn’t willing to,” Burr returned, in a hard voice; and he snatched up a hemlock bough, and went away with it to the other side of the ball-room.

“My sister won’t lilt for you, and you can have your ball the best way you can!” shouted the boy, his angry eyes following Burr.  Then he went out of the ball-room with a leap, and slammed the door so that the tavern trembled.

The young men chuckled.  “Injun blood is up,” said one.

“You’ll be scalped, Burr,” called the other.

Burr came over to them with an angry stride.  “Oh, quit fooling!” said he, impatiently.  “What’s going to be done?”