Molly’s eyes lit with delight.
“You’re goin’ to be around all summer—Blanche?”
“I certainly am—Molly.”
Both laughed happily, and Molly went on:
“Then maybe you’ll be at the swell farmers’ dance in Hartspool?”
“Dance? What dance? I—hadn’t heard.”
“Why, it’s the annual dance,” Molly cried, with a little dash of awe. “It’s—it’s awful swell. Folks come in from all around to it. They have a big supper—a real sit-down supper, with ice-creams, and—and everything. I’m going to it. I—I made up my mind yesterday. Oh, I do hope you’ll go. My, you’d be the belle of the ball. You just would.”
Blanche shook her head.
“Not with Molly Marton there,” she said. Again she saw the colour mount to the girl’s cheeks. “But it’s a long way for you. What is it? Twenty miles?”
Molly had finished eating, and sat with elbows on the table. She was gazing out of the window, through which the noon sun poured on to the whiteness of the cotton tablecloth. A surge of excitement was driving through her young body. She was thinking of Andy McFardell, and an irresistible desire was urging her to tell this wonderful new friend the story of the thing that had just come into her life. She yielded to the impulse. She flung discretion to the winds. She—she must tell someone. And Lightning, the only other person, was denied her by reason of his hatred of Andy.