He understood what she meant.  “Too short for a fellow as tall as I am, though,” he said.

“Git yo’ pahtners fer de quadrille!” cried the fiddler, in a sing-song voice, quite in harmony with his music.  Westerfelt did not want to dance.  He had ridden hard that day, and was tired and miserable, but he saw no way of escape.  The party had been given in his honor, and he must show appreciation of it.

“Will you dance it with me?” he asked the girl at his side.  “I am not a good dancer, and I am stiff from riding to-day.”

“Old Mack will soon take that out of you,” she laughed, as she gladly nodded her acceptance.  She put out her hand to his.  “Quick!” she cried; “let’s git that place near the door—­it’s head, and we can be opposite Sarah and Nelse Baker.”  He followed her across the room.  He felt as undignified as if he were romping with a child.  The room was not large enough for two sets, so only one of four couples was formed.  Old Mack noticed that three couples were left sitting, and cried out, autocratically, “Double on de sides!” Two couples sprang eagerly forward and took places, leaving one couple alone in a corner.  The girl remaining with her partner attracted Westerfelt’s attention.  She had rich brown hair, deep gray eyes, a small, well-shaped mouth, and a rather sad but decidedly pretty face.  There was something very graceful and attractive in the general contour of her body—­her small waist, her broad shoulders and rounding chest, her well-formed head, and the artistic arrangement of her abundant hair.  There was something, too, in the tasteful simplicity of her gray tailor-made gown that reminded Westerfelt of the dress of young ladies he had seen on short visits to the larger towns in the State.

Her companion was the most conspicuous person in the room.  He was above medium height, and had a splendid physique—­broad shoulders, muscular limbs, light brown eyes, short brown beard, and long curling hair.  He wore a navy-blue sack-coat, large checked trousers tucked in the tops of his boots, a gray woollen shirt, and a broad leather belt.  He was the only man in the room who had not taken off his hat.  It was very broad, the brim was pinned up on one side by a little brass ornament, and he wore it on the back of his head.

Westerfelt caught the eye of his partner, and asked:  “Who is the fellow with the hat on?”

“Don’t you know him?” she asked, in surprise.  “Why, that’s Toot Wambush, Sarah’s brother.”

“Why don’t he take off his hat?”

“For want of better sense, I reckon.”  Then she laughed, impulsively.  “I’ll tell you why he always keeps it on in the house.  He was at a party over at Sand Bank last spring, an’—­”

“Han’s to yo’ pahtners!” cried out Uncle Mack, as he drew his bow across three or four strings at once, producing a harmony of bass, alto, and treble sounds.  “Salute de lady on yo’ right!”