red porch became a
scene of animation, with beautiful, spirited horses, leaping dogs, negro
servants, and gay horsemen. Edward Cary sprang up the steps. "Aunt
Lucy, you remember Hilary Preston!--and this is my sister Unity,
Preston,--the Quakeress we call her! and this is Molly, the little
one!--Mr. Wood, I am very glad to see you, sir! Aunt Lucy! Virginia
Page, the two Masons, and Nancy Carter are coming over after supper with
Cousin William, and I fancy that Peyton and Dabney and Rives and Lee
will arrive about the same time. We might have a little dance, eh?
Here's Stafford with Judith, now!"

In the Greenwood drawing-room, after candle-light, they had the little
dance. Negro fiddlers, two of them, born musicians, came from the
quarter. They were dressed in an elaborate best, they were as suavely
happy as tropical children, and beamingly eager for the credit in the
dance, as in all things else, of "de fambly." Down came the bow upon the
strings, out upon the April night floated "Money Musk!" All the
furniture was pushed aside, the polished floor gave back the lights.
From the walls men and women of the past smiled upon a stage they no
longer trod, and between garlands of roses the shepherds and
shepherdesses pursued their long, long courtship. The night was mild,
the windows partly open, the young girls dancing in gowns of summery
stuff. Their very wide skirts were printed over with pale flowers, their
bodices were cut low, with a fall of lace against the white bosom. The
hair was worn smooth and drawn over the ear, with on either side a
bright cluster of blossoms. The fiddlers played "Malbrook s'en va-t-en
guerre." Laughter, quick and gay, or low and ripplingly sweet, flowed
through the old room. The dances were all square, for there existed in
the country a prejudice against round dancing. Once Edward Cary pushed a
friend down on the piano stool, and whirled with Nancy Carter into the
middle of the room in a waltz. But Miss Lucy shook her head at her
nephew, and Cousin William gazed sternly at Nancy, and the fiddlers
looked scandalized. Scipio, the old, old one, who could remember the
Lafayette ball, held his bow awfully poised.

Judith Cary, dressed in a soft, strange, dull blue, and wearing a little
crown of rosy flowers, danced along like the lady of Saint Agnes Eve.
Maury Stafford marked how absent was her gaze, and he hoped that she was
dreaming of their ride that afternoon, of the clear green woods and the