rain beat in, and as he rightly explained, that sort of thing was bad for any one’s rheumatism.
“He’s a rare grumbler,” said the little dog, “but don’t you mind him. He means nothing by it, and he’ll be asleep again in two minutes. And now make yourselves at home!”
The blind man’s cottage had only one room, but it was warm and comfortable. The stove burned cheerfully, there was a bed in one corner where the blind man slept and another under the table for the little dog. On the floor stood a saucer of bread-and-milk, left over from the little dog’s own supper, which he said they might finish up and welcome; as for himself, he had all he wanted.
While they were sitting round the stove, getting thoroughly warm and dry, the old blind man took his fiddle down from the wall and began to play. It was wonderful how he drew the bow across the strings, and at once the music came out, capital tunes, one after another, that made one long to get up and dance. The little dog sat still, blinking; he had heard these tunes many times before and took no great stock in them, he said, one air was just like another to him. The blind man’s head nodded as he played, and his foot tapped on the boards. Presently Poor Cecco could stand it no longer. He jumped up, and seizing Bulka round the waist began to whirl him about the floor. It was a pity the little dog didn’t dance too. If Virginia May and Tubby had been there, what a won-
