The wild clematis was in blossom now; the fences were white with it, and the rusty cedars were crowned with virgin wreaths; but the weeds were thick in the garden and in the potato patch. Dorothy, stretching her cramped back, looked longingly up the shadowy vista of the farm-lane that had nothing to do but ramble off into the remotest green fields, where the daisies' faces were as white and clear as in early June.
One hot August night she came home late from the store. The stars were thick in the sky; the katydids made the night oppressive with their rasping questionings, and a hoarse revel of frogs kept the ponds from falling asleep in the shadow of the hills.
“Is thee very tired to-night, Dorothy?” her mother asked, as she took her seat on the low step of the porch. “Would thee mind turning old John out thyself?”
“No, mother, I'm not tired. But why? Oh, I know!” cried Dorothy with a quick laugh. “The dance at Slocum's barn. I thought those boys were uncommonly helpful.”
“Yes, dear, it's but natural they should want to see it. Hark! we can hear the music from here.”
They listened, and the breeze brought across the fields the sound of fiddles and the rhythmic tramp of feet, softened by the distance. Dorothy's young pulses leaped.
“Mother, is it any harm for them just to see it? They have so little fun, except what they get out of teasing and shirking.”
“My dear, thy father would never countenance such a scene of frivolity, or permit one of his children to look upon it; through our eyes and ears the world takes possession of our hearts.”
“Then I'm to spare the boys this temptation, mother? Thee will trust me to pass the barn?”