He did so, feeling very much exhilarated. He never before had gone courting in this direct and aboveboard fashion. He mistook the father's hospitality for compliance in his designs. He followed his host into the house, and faced, with very fair composure, two girls who smiled broadly as they shook hands with him. Mrs. Kennedy gave him a lax hand and a curt how-de-do, and Lucindy fairly scowled in answer to his radiant smile. She was much changed, he could see. She wore a dress with puffed sleeves, and her hair was dressed differently. She seemed strange and distant, but he thought she was "putting that on" for the benefit of others. At the table the three girls talked of things at the Siding, and ignored him so that he was obliged to turn to Farmer Kennedy for refuge. He kept his courage up by thinking, "Wait till we are alone." After supper, when Lucindy explained that the dishes would have to be washed, he offered to help her in his best manner. "Thank you, I don't need any help," was Lucindy's curt reply. Ordinarily he was a man of much facility and ease in addressing women, but he was vastly disconcerted by her manner. He sat rather silently waiting for the room to clear. When the visitors intimated that they must go, he rose with cheerful alacrity. "I'll get your horse for you." He helped hitch the horse into the buggy, and helped the girls in with a return of easy gallantry, and watched them drive off with joy. At last the field was clear. They returned to the sitting room, where the old folks remained for a decent interval, and then left the young people alone. His courage returned then, and he turned toward her with resolution in his voice and eyes. "Lucindy," he began. "Miss Kennedy, please," interrupted Lucindy, with cutting emphasis. "I'll be darned if I do," he replied hotly. "What's the matter with you? Since going to Minneapolis you put on a lot of city airs, it seems to me." "If you don't like my airs, you know what you can do!" He saw his mistake. "Now see here, Lucindy, there's no sense in our quarrelling." "I don't want to quarrel; I don't want anything to do with you. I wish I'd never seen you." "Oh, you don't mean that! after all the good talks we've had." She flushed red. "I never had any such talks with you." He pursued his advantage. "Oh, yes, you did, and you took pains that I should see you." "I didn't; no such thing. You came poking into the kitchen where you'd no business to be." "Say, now, stop fooling. You like me and--" "I don't. I hate you, and if you don't clear out I'll call father. You're one o' these kind o' men that think if a girl looks at 'em that they want to marry 'em. I tell you I don't want anything more to do with you, and I'm engaged to another man, and I wish you'd attend to your own business. So there! I hope you're satisfied."