Wallace asked to be excused, observing with a laugh that it was milking time, and a few minutes later we saw him pass the window, clad in blue overalls and a “jumper.”

“Tell you what I’ll do with you, LaHume,” said Chilvers, who never misses an opportunity to stir up trouble.  “I’ll bet you a box of Haskells that our Scotch friend, who is now out there milking, can outdrive you twenty yards, and I never saw him with a club in his hands.”

“I am not his rival in that or in any other capacity,” warmly declared LaHume.

At this instant our hostess arose, giving the signal that the dinner was ended, and we adjourned to the lawn.  LaHume said something to Miss Lawrence; she laughed scornfully, and left him and joined Miss Harding.

After cigars and pipes we inspected the new red barn.  It is a huge structure, modern in every particular, and Bishop was properly proud of it.  The lofts were partially filled with sweet clover hay, and the odour combined with that of the new pine lumber was delicious.  The floor had been planed smooth, and oiled and waxed so as to make an excellent space for dancing.  The uprights were twined with ivy and decorated with wild flowers, and the effect was pleasing.

The guests were already arriving in all sorts of vehicles, from farm wagons to automobiles.

An “orchestra” of five pieces was on hand, and the musicians took their places beneath a cluster of Chinese lanterns.  There were fully a hundred on the floor at nine o’clock, when Mr. Harding and Mrs. Bishop led off in the grand march.  I had secured Miss Harding as my partner, and LaHume and Miss Lawrence were behind us.  Carter was with some village beauty, but I saw nothing of Wallace in the grand march.

Later he appeared and danced a waltz with Miss Ross, and they made a handsome couple.  The “hired man” was as well dressed as any gentleman in the room, and I have never seen a more graceful dancer than that tall, young Scotchman.  LaHume watched him like a hawk.  When Wallace claimed Miss Lawrence for a schottische the glum LaHume stood by the door and looked as if he would rather fight than dance.  Chilvers told him he was making an ass of himself.

It was a glorious night beneath the radiance of a full moon which silvered the lace-work of a mackerel sky.  I never fully realised what dancing was until Miss Harding favoured me with a polka.  And then we wandered out into the moonlight, talked about the moon, and hunted for the Great Dipper.

Even a plain woman looks pretty when with eyes and chin lifted she gazes at the star-studded heavens, her face profiled against the gleaming orb of a full moon, but no words of mine can describe the splendid beauty of Miss Harding in that attitude.  I tried to think of something to say, but was under a spell and could think of nothing, and it was perhaps just as well.  I composed some ripping good sentences before I went to sleep that night, but it was too late to use them, and I shall not record them here.