Mrs. Markham’s bed had been removed from the sitting room, and the carpet taken from the floor, for they were going to dance, and Eunice’s mother had been working hard all day to keep her liege lord away from the Cross Roads tavern so that he might be presentable at night, and capable of performing his part, together with his eldest son, who played the flute.  She was out in the kitchen now, very large and important with the office of head waiter, her hoops in everybody’s way, and her face radiant with satisfaction, as she talked to Mrs. Markham about what we better do.  The table was laid in the kitchen and loaded with all the substantials, besides many delicacies which Melinda and Ethelyn had concocted; for the latter had even put her hands to the work, and manufactured two large dishes of Charlotte Russe, with pretty molds of blanc-mange, which Eunice persisted in calling “corn-starch puddin’, with the yallers of eggs left out,” There were trifles, and tarts, and jellies, and sweetmeats, with raised biscuits by the hundred, and loaves on loaves of frosted cake; while out in the woodshed, wedged in a tub of ice, was a huge tin pail, over which James, and John, and Andy, and even Richard had sat, by turns, stirring the freezing mass.  Mrs. Jones’ little colored boy, who knew better how to wait on company than any person there, came over in his clean jacket, and out on the doorstep was eating chestnuts and whistling Dixie, as he looked down the road to see if anybody was coming.  Melinda Jones had gone home to dress, feeling more like going to bed than making merry at a party, as she looped up her black braids of hair and donned her white muslin dress with the scarlet ribbons.  Melinda was very tired, for a good share of the work had fallen upon her—­or rather she had assumed it—­and her cheeks and hands were redder than usual when, about seven o’clock, Tim drove her over to Mrs. Markham’s, and then went to the village after the dozen or more of girls whom he had promised “to see to the doin’s.”

But Melinda looked very pretty—­at least James Markham thought so—­when she stood up on tiptoe to tie his cravat in a better-looking bow than he had done.  Since the night when Richard first told her of Ethelyn, it had more than once occurred to Melinda that possibly she might yet bear the name of Markham, for her woman nature was quick to see that James, at least, paid her the homage which Richard had withheld.  But Melinda’s mind was not yet made up, and as she was too honest to encourage hopes which might never be fulfilled, she would not even look up into the handsome eyes resting so admiringly upon her as she tied the bow of the cravat and felt James’ breath upon her burning cheeks.  She did, however, promise to dance the first set with him, and then she ran upstairs to see if Ethelyn needed her.  But Eunice had been before her, and Ethelyn’s toilet was made.