“Farnham Hollow is ten miles away,” said Richard.

“His horse is fast; he’d get him here by eight o’clock,” returned Louis.

Madelon was radiant.  In spite of herself, she was full of hope in going to the ball.  She knew Dorothy Fair would not be present, since her father was the orthodox parson, and she had seen her own face in her glass.  With her rival away, what could not a face like that do with a heart that leaned towards it of its own nature?  Madelon dimly felt that Burr Gordon had to resist himself as well as her in this matter.  She had tended a monthly rose in the south window all winter, and she wore two red roses in her black braids.  Her cheeks and her lips were fuller of warm red life than the roses.  She lowered her black eyes before her father and her brothers, for there was a light in them which she could not subdue, which belonged to Burr Gordon only.  No costly finery had Madelon Hautville, but she had done some cunning needle-work on an old black-satin gown of her mother’s, and it was fitted as softly over her sweet curves as a leaf over a bud.  A long garland of flowers after her own design had she wrought in bright-colored silks around the petticoat, and there were knots of red ribbon to fasten the loopings here and there.  And she wore another red rose in her lace tucker against her soft brown bosom.  Madelon wore, too, trim black-silk stockings with red clocks over her slender ankles, and little black-satin shoes with steel buckles and red rosettes.  Every one of her brothers, except the youngest, Richard, must needs compare her in his own heart, to her disparagement, with some maid not his sister, but they all viewed her with pride.  Old David Hautville’s eyes, under his thick, white brows, followed her and dwelt upon her as she moved around the kitchen.

Madelon had got out her red cloak and her silk hood, and it was nearly time to start when there was a knock on the door.  Madelon’s face was pale in a second, then red again.  She pushed Richard aside.  “I’ll go to the door,” said she.

She knew somehow that it was Burr Gordon, and when she opened the door he stood there.  He looked curiously embarrassed, but she did not notice that.  His mere presence for the moment seemed to fill all her comprehension.  She had no eye for shades of expression.

“Come in,” said she, all blushing and trembling before him, and yet with a certain dignity which never quite deserted her.

“Can I see you a minute?” Burr said, awkwardly.

“Come this way.”

Madelon led the way into the best room, where there was no fire.  It had not been warmed all winter, except on nights when Burr had come courting her.  In the midst of it the great curtained bedstead reared itself, holding its feather-bed like a drift of snow.  The floor was sanded in a fine, small pattern, there were white tasselled curtains at the windows, and there was a tall chest of drawers that reached the ceiling.  The room was just as Madelon’s mother, who had been one of the village girls, had left it.