“Dance? What dance?”
“Why, the farmers’ ball in Hartspool.”
The old man’s face was a study. His expression passed from astonishment and incredulity to frank contempt and disapproval.
“Ball? Say, Molly, gal, you ain’t goin’ to that bum hoe-down?” he cried almost desperately.
Molly’s eyes widened with resentment at the man’s contemptuous tone.
“It’s not a hoe-down,” she cried hotly. “It’s—it’s a swell ball, an’ you know it. Sure I’m going to it. And the suit’s forget-me-not blue, and the stockings are real silk—to match.”
Quite suddenly the eyes of the old man hardened fiercely.
“How you goin’?” he demanded almost roughly.
Perhaps it was the tone. Molly was looking straight into the eyes of her loyal old friend, and a spirit of mischief prompted her.
“Why, Andy McFardell’s going to take me. He’s getting tickets.”