“Right han’ ter yo’ pahtners,” called out Uncle Mack, rapping on the back of his fiddle with his bow.  “Salute yo’ pahtners; balance all!” and the dance began.  “Swing corners!  Fust fo’ for’ards, en back agin!”

“Faster, Unc’ Mack!” cried Sarah Wambush, as she swung past the old negro.  “That hain’t the right time!”

“Wait till he gets limbered up,” cried Frank Hansard across to her.  “He hain’t drawed a bow in two weeks, an’ has been ploughin’ a two-hoss turnover.”

Louder and louder grew the music and the clatter of shoes and boots.  The air was filled with dust; old Mack’s fiddle could hardly be heard above his shouts and the laughter of the dancers.  Luke and Mrs. Bradley stood in the open door leading to the kitchen, both smiling.  Mrs. Bradley seemed pleased with the ease with which Westerfelt appeared to be adapting himself to the company.

“Git the straws, Luke!” urged Frank Hansard, as the “grand chain” brought him near Bradley.  “Give it to us lively.”

“I can’t beat straws,” said Luke.

Hearing this, old Mack uttered a contradictory guffaw, and shook his gray wool in high amusement.

“Go on, Luke,” said his wife, as she pushed him towards the fiddler; “you kin, you know you kin.”

Luke edged round between the dancers and the fire, and took two smooth sour-wood sticks from Mack’s coat-pocket.  The old negro laughed and sang all the louder as he held his head to one side and Luke began to thrum the strings in time to the music.

“Whoo-ee!” shouted Frank, and the dance waxed faster and more noisy, till the exhausted fiddler brought it to an end by crying out: 

“Seat yo’ pahtners.”

Jennie sat down in a row of girls against the wall, and Mrs. Bradley came to Westerfelt.

“You must stir round,” she said; “I want you to git acquainted.  Come over here an’ talk to Sarah Wambush.”  He followed her across the room.  Sarah was seated next to Harriet Floyd.  As he sat down near Sarah, he fancied that Harriet, whose profile was towards him, gave him a glance out of the corner of her eye, but she turned her head and continued talking to Toot Wambush.  There was something he liked in the ease of her position as she sat, balling her handkerchief in a hand hidden half in the pocket of her jacket.  He thought her easily the prettiest girl in the room, and he vaguely resented the fact that she was receiving marked attention from a man of Wambush’s character.

He wanted to knock the fellow’s hat off, and tell him that a new man had come into the settlement who could not, and would not, stand such nonsense in the presence of ladies.

He listened to Sarah’s prattle with only half an ear, adding a word now and then to keep her tongue going, till another dance was called.  Nelse Baker asked Sarah to be his partner, and she rose.  Finding himself alone, Westerfelt got up.  As he did so, he caught another glance from the corner of Harriet Floyd’s eye, but she looked away quickly.  She thought he was going to ask her to dance with him when he turned towards her, but he had decided to invite a little plain girl who sat next the wall, hemmed in by the crossed legs of Wambush.  The girl flushed over the unexpected attention and rose at once.