She looked up in his bright fair face with sudden hesitation, and his blue eyes bent half humorously, half lovingly upon her.

She had a fierce desire to get away from this place, out into the night, and home.

"I do not care to dance," said she, falteringly; "but I could go home, if you felt disposed to fiddle." "Then go home and rest," cried the stranger, brightly.

"'Tis a strain on the throat to lilt so long, and you cannot put in a new string as you can in a fiddle." With that the young man came forward to the front of the little gallery, and Madelon yielded up her place hesitatingly.
"But you cannot dance yourself, sir," said she.
"I have danced all I want to to-night," he replied, and began tuning the fiddle.
"I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, sir," Madelon said, and got her hood and cloak from the back of the gallery with no more parley.
The young man cast admiring glances after her as she went out, with her young brother at her heels.
"I'm going home with you," Richard said to her as they went down the gallery stairs.
"Not a step," said she.

"You've just been after the fiddle, and they're going to dance the Fisher's Hornpipe next." "You'll be afraid in that lonesome stretch after you leave the village." "Afraid!" There was a ring of despairing scorn in the girl's voice, as if she faced already such woe that the supposition of new terror was an absurdity.
They had come down to the ball-room floor, and were standing directly in front of the musicians' gallery.