That night the Belden House gave its annual dance in the gym. It was still Indian summer weather and the moon was full. Madeline, who did not share the enthusiasm of most Harding girls for man-less dances, arranged her program with a view to frequent intervals of moonlight and solitude on the back campus. She danced the first number with one of her guests, and then strolled out to enjoy numbers two, three and four, which were blanks. She found a belated hammock, sole relic of the joys of springtime, swinging under the yellowing apple-trees, and lay back in it, listening to the music that floated out, soft and sweet, from the gaily lighted gym., and enjoying that delicious sense of evaded responsibility which only the true Bohemian, without even the vestige of a New England conscience, can experience.
The orchestra had finished number two, which was a martial two-step, and begun upon three, a rippling, swinging waltz, when Madeline’s attention was attracted by the grotesque antics of a girl who was sitting, or crouching, on the edge of a circle of light cast by the electric lamp in front of the Hilton House. Madeline watched her strange gestures for a moment, until something in the huddled shape suggested Bob Parker, and assured that all Bob’s performances were interesting, Madeline left her hammock and went over to investigate. The shape proved to be Bob, but a nearer view gave no more clue to her strange behavior.
“Bob,” demanded Madeline, “what in the world are you doing?”
Bob, who appeared to be absolutely engrossed in her odd pursuit, looked up as Madeline spoke and surveyed her calmly. “It’s quite evident what you’re doing,” she said severely. “You’re catching your death of cold in that low dress, and you’re cutting your own house dance. Did you hear Nita Reese inquiring for me?”
“No,” said Madeline, sweetly, “but she told me that she was pleased to death to have one less guest to bother with.”
“I know she never said that,” retorted Bob, quite unmoved. “Nita’s always so polite. I hope she thought it though, but anyhow I couldn’t go. I went riding this afternoon and the horse ran away.”
“Did he spill you off on this spot, and have you been here ever since?” asked Madeline.
“Have I been here ever since?” repeated Bob indignantly. “He spilled me four miles from here, my friend, and I walked home and sent an exploring expedition after the horse, and dressed, and had dinner down-town and came here afterward. How’s that for strenuousness?”
“Well”—Madeline reverted to her original inquiry—“what are you doing now?”
“Oh, yes,” said Bob, cheerfully, “you did ask that. I—wait a minute, Madeline. There he is again.” Bob was off to the opposite end of the lighted space. “Why, I’m making more ‘Merry Hearts,’” she explained, returning and sitting down again at Madeline’s feet. “You know the Hilton House has a family of tame toads that live under the front steps. Well, I’m teaching them not to hop across the sidewalks, so they won’t be accidentally stepped on and come to untimely ends. They’re learning fast, too.”