"They's a-goin' to be a dance at our house a-Wednesday," she said in a penitent voice. "You're a-comin', ain't you, Lance?"
"Nope," returned the invited guest briefly.
He volunteered no excuse or explanation; and so, when the parting of their ways was reached, she demanded with imploring eyes on his face,
"Ye ain't mad with me, air ye. Lance? Why won't you come to my party?"
"Got somethin' else to do," Cleaverage returned nonchalantly. "Callista and me is goin' to be married a-Wednesday night."
Ola fell back a step, and clutched the sunbonnet which she carried rolled in her hands.
"You're a—w'y, Lance—you're jest a foolin'," she faltered.
Lance shook his head lightly, without a word.
"But—why, I was over at Gentry's this morning," she exclaimed finally. "Nobody thar said anything about it." She still watched his face incredulously. "They shorely would have said somethin', if Callista had named the day."
"She never named it," said Lance easily. "I named it myself, 74 back there on the ridge whilst you was catchin' your breath—or wastin' it. We had allowed that a week from yesterday would do us, but it sort of come over me that Wednesday was the right time, and I'm goin' along by there right now to settle it all. Reckon if you folks are givin' a dance you won't heed a invite? Good-bye," and he turned away on his own trail.