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Mary Bell’s heart grew cold,–sank. She had hoped, if she DID go, that some chance might make her escort no other than Jim Carr.

“It’ll make me sick if she gets him,” said Ellen, frankly. Although engaged herself, she felt an unabated interest in the love-affairs about her.

“Is he going to drive her over?” asked Mary Bell, clearing her throat.

“No, thank the Lord for that!” said Ellen, piously. “No. It’s all Mrs. Parmalee’s doing, anyway! His horse is lame, and I guess she thought it was a good chance! He’ll drive over there with Gus and mama and papa and Sadie and Mar’gret; and I guess he’ll get enough of ’em, too!”

Mary Bell breathed again. He hadn’t asked Carrie, anyway. And if she, Mary Bell, really went to the dance, and the pink frock looked well, and Jim Carr saw all the other boys crowding about her for dances–

The rosy dream brought them to the steps of the American Palace Hotel, for Deaneville was only a village, and a brisk walker might have circled it in twenty minutes. The hideous brown hotel, with its long porches, was the largest building in the place, except for hay barns, and fruit storehouses. Three or four saloons, a “social hall,” the “general store,” and the smithy, formed the main street, and diverging from it scattered the wide shady lanes that led to old homesteads and orchards.

“Johnnie,” Walt Larabee’s little black-eyed manager and wife, and the most beloved of Deaneville matrons, was in the bare, odorous hallway. She was clad in faded blue denim overalls, and a floating transparent kimono of some cheap stuff. Her coal-black hair was rigidly puffed and pinned, and ornamented with two coquettish red roses, and her thin cheeks were rouged.

“Well, say–don’t you girls think you’re the whole thing!” said the lady, blithely. “Not for a minute! Walt and me are going to this dance, too!”

She waved toward them one of the slippers she was cleaning.

“Walt said somethin’ about it yes’day,” continued Mrs. Larabee, with relish, “but I said no; no twelve-mile drive for me, with a young baby! But some folks we know came down on the morning train–you girls have heard me speak of Ed and Lizzie Purdy?”

“Oh, yes!” said Mary Bell, sick with one more disappointment.

“Well,” pursued Johnnie, “they had dinner here, and come t’ talk it over, Lizzie was wild to go, and Ed got Walt all worked up, and nothing would do but we must get out our old carryall, and take their Thelma and my Maxine along! Well, LAUGH–we were like a lot of kids! I’m crazy to dance just once in Pitcher’s barn. We’re going up early, and have our supper up there.”

“We’re going to do that, too,” said Ellen, with pleasant anticipation. “Ma and I always help set tables, and so on! It’s lots of fun!”

Mary Bell’s face grew sober as she listened. It WOULD be fun to be one of the gay party in the big barn, in the twilight, and to have her share of the unpacking and arranging, and the excitement of arriving wagons and groups. The great supper of cold chicken and boiled eggs and fruit and pickles, the fifty varieties of cake, would be spread downstairs; and upstairs the musicians would be tuning their instruments as early as seven o’clock, and the eager boys and girls trying their steps, and changing cards. And then there would be feasting and laughing and talking, and, above all, dancing until dawn!

“Beg pardon, Johnnie?” she stammered.

“Well, looks like some one round here is in love, or something!” said Johnnie, freshly. “I never had it that bad, did you, Ellen? Ellen’s been telling me how you’re fixed, Mary Bell,” she went on with deep concern, “and I was suggestin’ that you run over to the general store, and ask Mis’ Rowe–or I should say, Mis’ Bates,” she corrected herself with a grin, and the girls laughed–“if she won’t sleep at your house tonight. Chess’ll tend store. It’ll be something fierce if you don’t go, Mary Bell, so you run along and ask the bride!” laughed Johnnie.