“I am sure I don’t know; she oughtn’t to,” returned Mrs. Hopkins. “You have no right to berate her native state in that way; it is very rude, to say the least.”
“So it is, for a fact. It’s right-down mean of me. I’ll have to find some way to make up for it.”
And find a way he did. First his special messenger, black Bounce, came over that afternoon with a basket of the finest peaches that Rhoda had ever seen, and next Lettice was seen galloping up the lane on her bay mare. She stopped in front of the porch where Rhoda sat sedately sewing. “Rhoda, Rhoda,” cried she, “put down your work; we are going fishing, and will take supper with us, and Mr. Sam Osborne is going to let us have a dance in his new barn this evening.”
Rhoda made no response, but sewed quietly on.
Lettice slipped down from her horse, and, still holding the bridle, tapped on the step with her whip. “Don’t you hear, you sober sides?” she cried. “We’re going fishing, and we’re going to Mr. Sam Osborne’s new barn for a dance. Old Hank is going to bring his fiddle. How I do love to dance! I assure you there are few things I like better. Hurry up and get ready.”
“I?”
“‘I?’ Of course you. Jamie will be here in a minute for you. He begged me to offer his excuses for sending so sudden an invitation—we only had the message from Mr. Osborne a few minutes ago—and Jamie asks that he may be your escort.”
“No, he may not,” Rhoda answered in a very dignified tone.
“And why, pray?”
“Because I don’t choose to give him the opportunity to abuse my state and to mock me.”