ow swing the girl you last swung about,
And now the one that's cut her out,
And now the one that's dressed in white,
And now the belle of the ball."

The dancers seemed bitten to the quick with the tarantula of an ecstatic
hilarity; their bodies swayed in perfect harmony to the swing of the
fiddles and the swell of the chorus. The most uncouth of them came under
the spell of that mad magic. Their movements, that in the beginning of the
dance had been shy and awkward, became almost beautiful; they forgot arms,
hands, feet; their bodies had become like the strings of some skilfully
played instrument, obediently responsive to rhythm, and in that composite
blending of races each in his dancing brought some of the poetry of his
own far land. The scene was amazing in its beauty and simplicity, like the
strong, inspirational power and rugged rhythm of some old border minstrel.
One by one the dancers glowed with better understanding; discordant
elements, alien nations were fused to harmony in this vivid picture.

Peter turned to Kitty, expecting to see her face aglow with the warmth of
it. She stood beside him, the one unresponsive soul in the room, on her
lips a pale, tolerant smile.

"Aren't they splendid, Kitty, these women? More than half of them work
like beavers all day, and they have young children and dozens of worries,
but would you suspect it? They're just the women for this country."

Now in the present state of affairs almost any other subject would have
been better calculated to promote good feeling than the one on which Peter
had alighted. Kitty's thoughts had perversely lingered about one who,
though not one with these women, had yet their sturdy self-reliance, their
acquiescence in grim conditions, their pleasure in simple things. Kitty's
apprehension, slow to kindle, had taken fire like a forest, and by its
blaze she saw things in a distorted light; her present vision magnified
the relations of Peter and Judith to a degree that a month ago she would
have regarded as impossible. "He is her lover!" was the accusation that
suddenly flashed through her mind, and with the thought an overwhelming
desire to say something unkind, something that should hurt him, supplanted
all judgment and reason.

"Oh, it's a decidedly remarkable scene, pictorially, I agree with you. And
an artist, of course--but isn't it a trifle quixotic, Peter, to idealize
them because they are having a good time? There's no virtue in it