CHAPTER I.

THE CHILD.

"Well, there!" said Miss Vesta. "The child has a wonderful gift, that is certain. Just listen to her, Rejoice! You never heard our canary sing like that!"

Miss Vesta put back the shutters as she spoke, and let a flood of light into the room where Miss Rejoice lay. The window was open, and Melody's voice came in like a wave of sound, filling the room with sweetness and life and joy.

"It's like the foreign birds they tell about!" said Miss Rejoice, folding her thin hands, and settling herself on the pillow with an air of perfect content,—"nightingales, and skylarks, and all the birds in the poetry-books. What is she doing, Vesta?"

Miss Rejoice could see part of the yard from her bed. She could see the white lilac-bush, now a mass of snowy plumes, waving in the June breeze; she could see the road, and knew when any of the neighbors went to town or to meeting; but the corner from which the wonderful voice came thrilling and soaring was hidden from her.

Miss Vesta peered out between the muslin curtains. "She's sitting on the steps," she said, "feeding the hens. It is wonderful, the way the creatures know her! That old top-knot hen, that never has a good word for anybody, is sitting in her lap almost. She says she understands their talk, and I really believe she does. 'Tis certain none of them cluck, not a sound, while she's singing. 'Tis a manner of marvel, to my mind."

"It is so," assented Miss Rejoice, mildly. "There, sister! you said you had never heard her sing 'Tara's Harp.' Do listen now!"

Both sisters were silent in delight. Miss Vesta stood at the window, leaning against the frame. She was tall, and straight as an arrow, though she was fifty years old. Her snow-white hair was brushed straight up from her broad forehead; her blue eyes were keen and bright as a sword. She wore a black dress and a white apron; her hands showed the marks of years of serving, and of hard work of all kinds. No one would have thought that she and Miss Rejoice were sisters, unless he had surprised one of the loving looks that sometimes passed between them when they were alone together. The face that lay on the pillow was white and withered, like a crumpled white rose. The dark eyes had a pleading, wistful look, and were wonderfully soft withal. Miss Rejoice had white hair too, but it had a warm yellowish tinge, very different from the clear white of Miss Vesta's. It curled, too, in little ringlets round her beautiful old face. In short, Miss Vesta was splendidly handsome, while no one would think of calling Miss Rejoice anything but lovely. The younger sister lay always in bed. It

was some thirty years since she met with the accident which changed her from a rosy, laughing girl into a helpless cripple. A party of pleasure,—gay lads and lasses riding together, careless of anything save the delight of the moment; a sudden leap of the horse, frightened at some obstacle; a fall, striking on a sharp stone,—this was Miss Rejoice's little story. People in the village had forgotten that there was any story; even her own contemporaries almost forgot that Rejoice had ever been other than she was now. But Miss Vesta never forgot. She left her position in the neighboring town, broke off her engagement to the man she loved, and came home to her sister; and they had never been separated for a day since. Once, when the bitter pain began to abate, and the sufferer could realize that she was still a living creature and not a condemned spirit, suffering for the sins of some one else (she had thought of all her own, and could not feel that they were bad enough to merit such suffering, if God was the person she

supposed),—in those first days Miss Rejoice ventured to question her sister about her engagement. She was afraid—she did hope the breaking of it had nothing to do with her. "It has to do with myself!" said Miss Vesta, briefly, and nothing more was said. The sisters had lived their life together, without a thought save for each other, till Melody came into their world.

But here is Melody at the door; she shall introduce herself. A girl of twelve years old, with a face like a flower. A broad white forehead, with dark hair curling round it in rings and tendrils as delicate as those of a vine; a sweet, steadfast mouth, large blue eyes, clear and calm under the long dark lashes, but with a something in them which makes the stranger turn to look at them again. He may look several times before he discovers the reason of their fixed, unchanging calm. The lovely mouth smiles, the exquisite face lights up with gladness or softens into sympathy or pity; but the blue eyes do not flash or soften, for Melody is blind.

She came into the room, walking lightly, with a firm, assured tread, which gave no hint of hesitation or uncertainty.

"See, Aunt Joy," she said brightly, "here is the first rose. You were saying yesterday that it was time for cinnamon-roses; now here is one for you." She stooped to kiss the sweet white face, and laid the glowing blossom beside it.

"Thank you, dear," said Miss Rejoice; "I might have known you would find the first blossom, wherever it was. Where was this, now? On the old bush behind the barn?"

"Not in our yard at all," replied the child, laughing. "The smell came to me a few minutes ago, and I went hunting for it. It was in Mrs. Penny's yard, right down by the fence, close, so you could hardly see it."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Miss Vesta. "And she let you have it?"

"Of course," said the child. "I told her it was for Aunt Joy."

"H'm!" said Miss Vesta. "Martha Penny doesn't suffer much from giving, as a rule, to Aunt Joy or anybody else. Did she give it to you at the first asking, hey?"

"Now, Vesta!" remonstrated Miss Rejoice, gently.

"Well, I want to know," persisted the elder sister.

Melody laughed softly. "Not quite the first asking," she said. "She wanted to know if I thought she had no nose of her own. 'I didn't mean that,' said I; 'but I thought perhaps you wouldn't care for it quite as much as Aunt Joy would.' And when she asked why, I said, 'You don't sound as if you would.' Was that rude, Aunt Vesta?"

"Humph!" said Miss Vesta, smiling grimly. "I don't know whether it was exactly polite, but Martha Penny wouldn't know the difference."

The child looked distressed, and so did Miss Rejoice.

"I am sorry," said Melody. "But then Mrs. Penny said something so funny. 'Well, gaffle onto it! I s'pose you're one of them kind as must always have what they want in this world. Gaffle onto your rose, and go 'long! Guess I might be sick enough before anybody 'ud get roses for me!' So I told her I would bring her a whole bunch of our white ones as soon as they were out, and told her how I always tried to get the first cinnamon-rose for Aunt Joy. She said, 'She ain't your aunt, nor mine either.' But she spoke kinder, and didn't seem cross any more; so I took the rose, and here it is."

Miss Vesta was angry. A bright spot burned in her cheeks, and she was about to speak hastily; but Miss Rejoice raised a gentle hand, and motioned her to be silent.

"Martha Penny has a sharp way, Melody," said Miss Rejoice; "but she meant no unkindness, I think. The rose is very sweet," she added; "there are no other roses so sweet, to my mind. And how are the hens this morning, dearie?"

The child clapped her hands, and laughed aloud. "Oh, we have had such fun!" she cried. "Top-knot was very cross at first, and would not let the young speckled hen eat out of the dish with her. So I took one under each arm, and sang and talked to them till they were both in a good humor. That made the Plymouth rooster jealous, and he came and drove them both away, and had to have a petting all by himself. He is such a dear!"

"You do spoil those hens, Melody," said Miss Vesta, with an affectionate grumble. "Do you suppose they'll eat any better for being talked to and sung to as if they were persons?"

"Poor dears!" said the child; "they ought to be happy while they do live, oughtn't they, Auntie? Is it time to make the cake now, Aunt Vesta, or shall I get my knitting, and sing to Auntie Joy a little?"

At that moment a clear whistle was heard outside the house. "The doctor!" cried Melody, her sightless face lighting up with a flash of joy. "I must go," and she ran quickly out to the gate.

"Now he'll carry her off," said Miss Vesta, "and we sha'n't see her again till dinner-time. You'd think she was his child, not ours. But so it is, in this world."

"What has crossed you this morning, Sister?" asked Miss Rejoice, mildly. "You seem put about."

"Oh, the cat got into the tea-kettle." replied the elder sister. "Don't fret your blessed self if I am cross. I can't stand Martha Penny, that's all,—speaking so to that blessed child! I wish I had her here; she'd soon find out whether she had a nose or not. Dear knows it's long enough! It isn't the first time I've had four parts of a mind to pull it for her."

"Why, Vesta Dale, how you do talk!" said Miss Rejoice, and then they both laughed, and Miss Vesta went out to scold the doctor.

CHAPTER II.

THE DOCTOR.

The doctor sat in his buggy, leaning forward, and talking to the child. A florid, jovial-looking man, bright-eyed and deep-chested, with a voice like a trumpet, and a general air of being the West Wind in person. He was not alone this time: another doctor sat beside him; and Miss Vesta smoothed her ruffled front at sight of the stranger.

"Good-morning, Vesta," shouted the doctor, cheerily. "You came out to shoot me, because you thought I was coming to carry off Melody, eh? You needn't say no, for I know your musket-shot expression. Dr. Anthony, let me present you to Miss Vesta Dale,—a woman who has never had the grace to have a day's sickness since I have known her, and that's forty years at least."

"Miss Dale is a fortunate woman," said Dr. Anthony, smiling. "Have you many such constitutions in your practice, Brown?"

"I am fool enough to wish I had," growled Dr Brown. "That woman, sir, is enough to ruin any practice, with her pernicious example of disgusting health. How is Rejoice this morning, Vesta? Does she want to see me?"

Miss Vesta thought not, to-day; then followed questions and answers, searching on one side, careful and exact on the other; and then—

"I should like it if you could spare Melody for half an hour this morning," said the doctor. "I want her to go down to Phoebe Jackson's to see little Ned."

"Oh, what is the matter with Ned?" cried Melody, with a quick look of alarm.

"Tomfoolery is the principal matter with him, my dear," said Dr. Brown, grimly. "His eyes have been troubling him, you know, ever since he had the measles in the winter. I've kept one eye on the child, knowing that his mother was a perfect idiot, or rather, an imperfect one, which is worse. Yesterday she sent for me in hot haste: Ned was going blind, and would I please come that minute, and save the precious child, and oh, dear me, what should she do, and all the rest of it. I went down mad enough, I can tell you; found the child's eyes looking like a ploughed field. 'What have you been doing to this child, Phffibe?' 'We-ell, Doctor, his eyes has been kind o' bad along back, the last week. I did cal'late to send for you before; but one o' the neighbors was in, and she said to put molasses and tobacco-juice in them.' 'Thunder and turf!' says I. 'What sa-ay?' says Phoebe. ''N' then old Mis' Barker come in last night. You know she's had consid'able experi'nce with eyes, her own having been weakly, and all her children's after her. And she said to try vitriol; but I kind o'

thought I'd ask you first, Doctor, so I waited till morning. And now his eyes look terrible, and he seems dretful 'pindlin'; oh, dear me, what shall I do if my poor little Neddy goes blind?' 'Do, Madam?' I said. 'You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you and your tobacco-juice and molasses have made him blind. That's what you will do, and much good may it do you.'"

"Oh, Doctor," cried Melody, shrinking as if the words had been addressed to her, "how could you say that? But you don't think—you don't think Ned will really be blind?" The child had grown very pale, and she leaned over the gate with clasped hands, in painful suspense.

"No, I don't," replied the doctor. "I think he will come out all right; no thanks to his mother if he does. But it was necessary to frighten the woman, Melody, for fright is the only thing that makes an impression on a fool. Now, I want you to run down there, like a good child; that is, if your aunts can spare you. Run down and comfort the little fellow, who has been badly scared by the clack of tongues and the smarting of the tobacco-juice. Imbeciles! cods' heads! scooped-out pumpkins!" exclaimed the doctor, in a sudden frenzy. "A—I don't mean that. Comfort him up, child, and sing to him and tell him about Jack-and-the-Beanstalk. You'll soon bring him round, I'll warrant. But stop," he added, as the child, after touching Miss Vesta's hand lightly, and making and receiving I know not what silent communication, turned toward the house,—"stop a moment, Melody. My friend Dr. Anthony here is very fond of music, and he would like to hear you sing just one song. Are you in singing trim this morning?"

The child laughed. "I can always sing, of course," she said simply. "What song would you like, Doctor?"

"Oh, the best," said Dr. Brown. "Give us 'Annie Laurie.'"

The child sat down on a great stone that stood beside the gate. It was just under the white lilac-bush, and the white clusters bent lovingly down over her, and seemed to murmur with pleasure as the wind swept them lightly to and fro. Miss Vesta said something about her bread, and gave an uneasy glance toward the house, but she did not go in; the window was open, and Rejoice could hear; and after all, bread was not worth so much as "Annie Laurie." Melody folded her hands lightly on her lap, and sang.

Dr. Brown thought "Annie Laurie" the most beautiful song in the world; certainly it is one of the best beloved. Ever since it was first written and sung (who knows just when that was? "Anonymous" is the legend that stands in the song-books beside this familiar title. We do not know the man's name, cannot visit the place where he wrote and sang, and made music for all coming generations of English-speaking people; can only think of him as a kind friend, a man of heart and genius as surely as if his name stood at the head of unnumbered symphonies and fugues),—ever since it was first sung, I say, men and women and children have loved this song. We hear of its being sung by camp-fires, on ships at sea, at gay parties of pleasure. Was it not at the siege of Lucknow that it floated like a breath from home through the city hell-beset, and brought cheer and hope and comfort to all who heard it? The cotter's wife croons it over her sleeping baby; the lover sings it to his sweetheart; the child runs, carolling it, through the summer fields; finally, some world-honored prima-donna,

some Patti or Nilsson, sings it as the final touch of perfection to a great feast of music, and hearts swell and eyes overflow to find that the nursery song of our childhood is a world-song, immortal in freshness and beauty. But I am apt to think that no lover, no tender mother, no splendid Italian or noble Swede, could sing "Annie Laurie" as Melody sang it. Sitting there in her simple cotton dress, her head thrown slightly back, her hands folded, her eyes fixed in their unchanging calm, she made a picture that the stranger never forgot. He started as the first notes of her voice stole forth, and hung quivering on the air,—

"Maxwellton braes are bonnie, Where early fa's the dew."

What wonder was this? Dr. Anthony had come prepared to hear, he quite knew what,—a child's voice, pretty, perhaps, thin and reedy, nasal, of course. His good friend Brown was an excellent physician, but with no knowledge of music; how should he have any, living buried in the country, twenty miles from a railway, forty miles from a concert? Brown had said so much about the blind child that it would have been discourteous for him, Dr. Anthony, to refuse to see and hear her when he came to pass a night with his old college chum; but his assent had been rather wearily given: Dr. Anthony detested juvenile prodigies. But what was this? A voice full and round as the voices of Italy; clear as a bird's; swelling ever richer, fuller, rising in tones so pure, so noble, that the heart of the listener ached, as the poet's heart at hearing the nightingale, with almost painful pleasure. Amazement and delight made Dr. Anthony's face a study, which his friend perused with keen enjoyment. He knew, good Dr. Brown, that he himself was a musical nobody; he knew pretty well (what does a doctor

not know?) what Anthony was thinking as they drove along. But he knew Melody too; and he rubbed his hands, and chuckled inwardly at the discomfiture of his knowing friend.

The song died away; and the last notes were like those of the skylark when she sinks into her nest at sunset. The listeners drew breath, and looked at each other.

There was a brief silence, and then, "Thank you, Melody," said Dr. Brown. "That's the finest song in the world, I don't care what the next is. Now run along, like my good maid, and sing it to Neddy Jackson, and he will forget all about his eyes, and turn into a great pair of ears."

The child laughed. "Neddy will want 'The British Grenadier,'" she said. "That is his greatest song." She ran into the house to kiss Miss Rejoice, came out with her sun-bonnet tied under her chin, and lifted her face to kiss Miss Vesta. "I sha'n't be gone long, Auntie," she said brightly. "There'll be plenty of time to make the cake after dinner."

Miss Vesta smoothed the dark hair with a motherly touch. "Doctor doesn't care anything about our cake," she said; "he isn't coming to tea to-night. I suppose you'd better stay as long as you're needed. I should not want the child to fret."

"Good-by, Doctor," cried the child, joyously, turning her bright face toward the buggy. "Good-by, sir," making a little courtesy to Dr. Anthony, who gravely took off his hat and bowed as if to a duchess. "Good-by again, dear auntie;" and singing softly to herself, she walked quickly away.

Dr. Anthony looked after her, silent for a while. "Blind from birth?" he asked presently.

"From birth," replied Dr. Brown. "No hope; I've had Strong down to see her. But she's the happiest creature in the world, I do believe. How does she sing?" he asked with ill-concealed triumph. "Pretty well for a country child, eh?"

"She sings like an angel," said Dr. Anthony,—"like an angel from heaven."

"She has a right to, sir," said Miss Vesta, gravely. "She is a child of God, who has never forgotten her Father."

Dr. Anthony turned toward the speaker, whom he had almost forgotten in his intense interest in the child. "This lovely child is your own niece, Madam?" he inquired. "She must be unspeakably dear to you."

Miss Vesta flushed. She did not often speak as she had just done, being a New England woman; but "Annie Laurie" always carried her out of herself, she declared. The answer to the gentleman's question was one she never liked to make. "She is not my niece in blood," she said slowly. "We are single women, my sister and I; but she is like our own daughter to us."

"Twelve years this very month, Vesta, isn't it," said Dr. Brown, kindly, "since the little one came to you? Do you remember what a wild night it was?"

Miss Vesta nodded. "I hear the wind now when I think of it," she said.

"The child is an orphan," the doctor continued, turning to his friend. "Her mother was a young Irish woman, who came here looking for work. She was poor, her husband dead, consumption on her, and so on, and so on. She died at the poorhouse, and left this blind baby. Tell Dr. Anthony how it happened, Vesta."