“’Tis not a tantrums, goody,” said Nick, politely, “but a coranto.”
“La! young master, what’s the odds, just so we sees it done? Some folks calls whittles ‘knives,’ and thinks ’t wunnot cut theys fingers!”
Nick took his place at the side of the ring. “Now, Cicely!” said he.
“Thou’lt call ‘Sa—sa!’ and give me the time of the coup d’archet?” she whispered, timidly hesitant, as she stepped to the midst of the ring.
“Ay, then,” said he, “’tis off, ’tis off!” and struck up a lively tune, snapping his fingers for the time.
Cicely, bowing all about her, slowly began to dance.
It was a pretty sight to see: her big eyes wide and earnest, her cheeks a little flushed, her short hair curling, and her crimson gown fluttering about her as she danced the quaint running step forward and back across the grass, balancing archly, with her hands upon her hips and a little smile upon her lips, in the swaying motion of the coupee, courtesying gracefully as one tiny slippered foot peeped out from her rustling skirt, tapping on the turf, now in front and now behind. Nick sang like a blackbird in the hedge. And how those country lads and lasses stared to see such winsome, dainty grace! “La me!” gaped one, “’tis fairy folk—she doth na even touch the ground!” “The pretty dear!” the mothers said. “Doll, why canst thou na do the like, thou lummox?” “Tut,” sighed the buxom Doll, “I have na wingses on my feet!”
Then Cicely, breathless, bowed, and ran to Nick’s side asking, “Was it all right, Nick?”
“Right?” said he, and stroked her hair; “’twas better than thou didst ever dance it for M’sieu.”
“For why?” said she, and flushed, with a quick light in her eyes; “for why—because this time I danced for thee.”