And things grew harder, much harder, during the first dance. The guests danced through the big double parlours and out the side door on to the big, deep porch. It was inspiringly beautiful out there on the porch: the sweet odour of honeysuckle and wistaria and “mock orange” all commingled; and the lights shining yellow out of the windows, and the paler, glistening light of the moon spreading its fairy whiteness everywhere. It was inspiringly beautiful; and the music was divine--Charley Kelley's orchestra was playing; and Mr. Briggs was a wonderful dancer. But Missy couldn't forget the oppressive heat, or the stabbing weights in her head, or, worse yet, that blackberry cobbler. As Mr. Briggs was clapping for a second encore, she said tremulously: “Will you excuse me a minute?--I must run upstairs--I forgot my handkerchief.” “Let me get it for you,” offered Mr. Briggs gallantly. “No! oh, no!” Her tone was excited and, almost frantically, she turned and ran into the house and up the stairs. Up there, in the bedroom which was temporarily the “ladies' cloak-room, prostrate on the bed, Mrs. Bonner found her later. Missy protested she was now feeling better, though she thought she'd just lie quiet awhile. She insisted that Mrs. Bonner make no fuss and go back down to her guests. Mrs. Bonner, after bringing a damp towel and some smelling-salts, left her. But presently Missy heard the sound of tip-toeing steps, and lifted a corner of the towel from off her eyes. There stood Mr. Briggs. “Say, this is too bad!” he commiserated. “How's the head?” “It's better,” smiled Missy wanly. It wasn't better, in fact, but a headache isn't without its advantages when it makes a young man forsake dancing to be solicitous. “Sure it's better?” “Sure,” replied Missy, her smile growing a shade more wan. “Because if it isn't--” Mr. Briggs began to rub his palms together briskly--“I've got electricity in my hands, you know. Maybe I could rub it away.” “Oh,” said Missy. Her breathing quickened. The thought of his rubbing her headache away, his hands against her brow, was alarming yet exhilarating. She glanced up as she felt him removing the towel from her head, then quickly down again. She felt, even though her face was already fiery hot, that she was blushing. She was embarrassed, her head was racking, but on the whole she didn't dislike the situation. Mr. Briggs unlinked his cuffs, turned back his sleeves, laid his palms on her burning brow, and began a slow, pressing movement outward, in both directions, toward her temples. “That feel good?” he asked. “Yes,” murmured Missy. She could scarcely voice the word; for, in fact, the pressure of his hands seemed to send those horrible weights joggling worse than ever, seemed to intensify the uneasiness in her throat--though she wouldn't for worlds let Mr. Briggs think her unappreciative of his kindness. The too-kind hands stroked maddeningly on. “Feel better now?” “Yes,” she gasped.