joined the darkness of the meadow, and then fled, stumbling along with
blinded eyes, the music still vibrating in her ears. Then came a quick rush
of footsteps behind her, swishing through the long grass. She did not look
back, but quickened her pace, struggling to reach the gate. Evesham was
there before her. He had swung the gate to and was leaning with his back
against it, laughing and panting.

"I've caught you, Dorothy, you little deceiver! You'll not get rid of me
to-night with any of your tricks. I'm going to take you home to your mother
and tell her you were peeping at the dancing."

"Mother knows that I came; I asked her," said Dorothy. Her knees were
trembling and her heart almost choked her with its throbbing.

"I'm so glad you don't dance, Dorothy. This is much nicer than the barn,
and the katydids are better fiddlers than old Darby and his son. I'll open
the gate if you will put your hand in mine, so that I can be sure of you,
you little runaway."

"I will stay here all night, first," said Dorothy, in a low, quivering
voice.

"As you choose. I shall be happy as long as you are here."

Dead silence, while the katydids seemed to keep time to their heart-beats;
the fiddles began tuning for another reel, and the horses, tethered near,
stretched out their necks with low, inquiring whinnies.

"Dorothy," said Evesham softly, leaning toward her and trying to see her
face in the darkness, "are you angry with me? Don't you think you deserve a