pe, his thoughts swinging from his prospective party to
the possible religious scruples of the Douglas family.

Mary Hope used to dance--a very little--he remembered, though she had
not attended many dances. He recalled suddenly that a Christmas tree
or a Fourth of July picnic had usually been the occasions when Mary
Hope, with her skirts just hitting her shoe tops in front and sagging
in an ungainly fashion behind, had teetered solemnly through a
"square" dance with him. Mother Douglas herself had always sat very
straight and prim on a bench, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes
blinking disapprovingly at the ungodly ones who let out an exultant
little yip now and then when they started exuberantly through the
mazes of the "gran'-right-n-left."

Would Mary Hope attend the party? Should he tell her about it and
ask her to come? Naturally, he could not peacefully escort her
partyward,--the feud was still too rancorous for that. Or was it?
At the Devil's Tooth they spoke of old Scotty as an enemy, but they
had cited no particular act of hostility as evidence of his enmity.
At the Devil's Tooth they spoke of the whole Black Rim country as
enemy's country. Lance began to wonder if it were possible that
the Lorrigans had adopted unconsciously the role of black sheep,
without the full knowledge or concurrence of the Black Rimmers.

He did what he could to make a workable lock of one that had been
ready to fall to pieces before his father heaved against it; hammered
in the loosened screws in the hinges, tossed the rock out into the
scuffed sod before the shack, and picked up his hat. He had not once
looked toward Mary Hope, but he turned now as if he were going to say
good-by and take himself off; as if mending the lock had really been
his errand, and no further interest held him there.

He surprised a strange, wistful look in Mary Hope's eyes, a trembling
of her lips. She seemed to be waiting, fearing that he meant to go
without any further overtures toward friendship.

The Whipple shack was not large. Ten feet spanned the distance between
them. Impulsively Lance covered that distance in three steps. At the
table he stopped, leaned toward her with his palms braced upon the
table, and stared full into Mary Hope's disturbed eyes.

"Girl," he said, drawing the word softly along a vibrant note in his
voice that sent a tremor through her, "Girl, you're more lonesome than
Scotch, and you're more Scotch than the heather th