WHEN Callista's gaze could no longer distinguish Lance on Satan, when the thick woods had swallowed up his moving figure at last, she turned to make ready the house for the evening. He had lived in the place, off and on, for several weeks, during the long period of finishing up work. Every evidence of his occupancy showed him a clever, neat-handed creature. Callista was continually finding proof of his daintiness and tidiness. She admired the bits of extra shelving—a little cupboard here or there—a tiny table that let down from the wall by means of a leathern hinge, to rest on its one stout leg—all sorts of receptacles contrived from most unlikely material. Throughout the forenoon, the girl worked, using the implements and utensils that his hands had made ready for her, drawing upon the store of girlish possessions which had come over in her trunk the day before, for wherewithal to grace and beautify the place for the evening's festivities.
Early in the afternoon Lance himself came riding slowly in. She had not expected him much before dark, and she ran to meet him with eager welcome. She watched him while he 125 unsaddled and fed his horse, and then the two went gaily into their new home, their arms full of the carefully wrapped purchases he had bought. The pretty slippers were got out, displayed and tried on; the curtains for the front windows were spread forth, and the bright table cover for the little stand; the lamp with its wonderful gay shade was cautiously unpacked and set up, the silverplated spoons counted, almost awesomely. Lance had had no dinner, and Callista had been so engrossed in her work about the cabin that she had cooked none for herself, stopping only to snatch a bite of the cold food left from breakfast. So now when all had been gone over again and again, admired and delighted in, he put her in a chair and peremptorily bade her, "rest right there whilst I make you some coffee and cook some dinner for the both of us."
Lance cooked just as he played the banjo, or danced, or hunted possums. Callista watched him with joy in the sure lightness of his movements, the satisfactoriness and precision of his results.
It was after three o'clock, and they were just finishing their coffee and cornbread, when little Polly Griever came running in at the door and announced,
"Cousin Lance, A' Roxy says tell you ef they's a-goin' to be dancin' here to-night, ne'er a one of us shain't step foot in the house."
"You go tell yo' Aunt Roxy that they's sure goin' to be dancin' 126 in my place this night," Lance instructed her, throwing his head back to laugh. "Say Polly, you tell her I aim to have her do the callin' off—you hear? Don't you forget, now. Tell her I'm dependin' on her to do the callin' off, and—"
"Now, Lance!" remonstrated Callista. Her face relaxed into lines of amusement in spite of herself. Yet she resolutely assumed a wifely air of reproof that Lance found irresistible. "You ought to be ashamed of yourse'f. If you ain't, why, I'm ashamed for you. Polly, you go tell Miz. Griever that they won't be a thing in the world here in my house that she'd object to."
"Huh! yo' house!" interpolated Lance, and he made as though he would have kissed her right before Polly, whereat her color flamed beautifully and she hastily moved back a bit, in alarm.
"You tell yo' Aunt Roxy, please come on, Polly, and to come early," she continued with native tact. "Tell her I'll expect her to help me out. Why, I don't know how I'd get along without Sis' Roxy and Pappy Cleaverage and Brother Sylvane."
Polly stood near the door, like a little hardy woods-creature, and rolled her gaze slowly about the interior, noting all the preparations that were on foot. She observed Lance shove back a little from the table and reach for his banjo. While Callista 127 lingered over her cup of coffee, Polly saw, with the tail of her eye, that Lance drew a little parcel from his pocket and began to put a new string on the instrument. That settled it; he had spoken the truth: he was going to have dancing there that night. The thin-shanked wiry little thing watched him continually till she caught his eye. Then with the freemasonry there always was between Lance and youngsters, she raised her brows in an interrogatory grimace while Callista's eyes were in her cup. Lance grinned and nodded his head vigorously. Still Polly looked doubtful. Lance moved his foot wickedly to emphasize his meaning. Polly was convinced. There would be no legitimate coming to the infare—not if she took that word home to Aunt Roxy.