“All together, men!” shouted Codman, and it was picked up bodily, whirled into position, dusted off in a jiffy, and ready for use.

At this Pestler sprang to his feet, shouted he was coming back in a minute, rushed to the stairway, went down three steps at a time, bolted through the front door, across the street, up into his bedroom, and back again, all in one breath, waving his violin triumphantly over his head as he entered.

And then it was that the real fun began.  And then it was that virtue had its own reward, for not a living soul in the room could play a note on the spinet except the tallest and spookiest and, to all appearances, the stupidest of the two young men, whom the Heffern girl had brought and who turned out to have once been the star pianist in some dance-hall on the Bowery.  And the scribe remarks, parenthetically and in all seriousness, that the way that lank, pin-headed young man revived the soul of that old, worn-out harpischord, digging into its ribs, kicking at its knees with both feet, hand-massaging every one of the keys up, down, and crossways, until the ancient fossil fairly rattled itself loose with the joy of being alive once more, was altogether the most astounding miracle he has ever had to record.  And Pestler with his violin was not far behind.

Everything had now broken loose.

At the first note, up jumped Kitty, caught John around the neck, and went whirling around the room.  At the second note, up jumped Codman, made a dive for Polly, missed her in the mix-up and, grabbing Mrs. Digwell instead, went sailing down the room as if he had done nothing else all his life.  At the third note, away went Sanderson and Bundleton, Heffern, everybody but the two castaways and Tim Kelsey, who beat juba on their knees, old Sam Dogger playing a tattoo all by himself with two knife-handles and a plate.  Some danced with their own wives; some with anybody’s wife or daughter or child—­a grand hullabaloo, down the middle, across, back, and up again, until everybody was exhausted and fell in a heap into Felix’s Spanish chairs, or on his Venetian wedding-chests, or wherever else they could find resting-places in which to catch their breaths.

And now comes the crowning touch of all—­the last of the evening’s surprises, and one remembered the longest because of its simplicity and its beauty!

When everybody was resting, out stepped Felix, the light of the overhead candles falling on his pale, thoughtful face, white shirt-front, and faultless suit of black which fitted his well-knit, handsome frame like a glove, and with him the Grande Duchesse Masie de Kling, the child bowing and smiling as she passed, the wide leghorn hat shading her face from the light of the lanterns above, her long train caught, woman-fashion, over her arm.  Then, with a low word to the pin-headed young man, followed by a downward wave of his palm to denote the time, and the child’s fingers firm in his own, Felix led her through an old-fashioned, stately minuet, telling her in an undertone just what steps to take.