As if she heard and deliberately moved to contradict him, Mary Hope danced past the window, the hand of a strange young man with a crisp white handkerchief pressed firmly between her shoulder blades. Mary Hope was dancing almost as solemnly as in the days of short skirts and sleek hair, her eyes apparently fixed upon the shoulder of her partner who gazed straight out over her head, his whole mind centered upon taking the brunt of collisions upon the point of his upraised elbow. "I'll ketch her when she's through dancing," promised Tom. But Lance had another thought. "Let me tell Mary Hope, dad. I'm going to dance with her, and it will be easy." In the darkness Tom grinned and went on to find Jim Boyle standing in a group of older men on the platform that served as a porch. Jim Boyle was smoking a cheap cigar brought out from Jumpoff by the section boss. He listened reflectively, looked at the glowing tip of the evil-smelling cigar, threw the thing from him and reached for his cigarette papers with an oath. "Now, that's damn white of yuh, Tom," he said. "I leave it to the boys if it ain't damn white. Not having no school district I'm puttin' up the money outa my own pocket to pay the teacher. And havin' four kids to feed and buy clothes for, I couldn't afford to build no schoolhouse, I tell yuh those. And uh course, I didn't like to go round askin' fer help; but it's damn white of yuh to step in an' do yore share towards making the Rim look like it was civilized. Sederson, he'll feel the same way about it. And I'm gitting a foreman that's got a kid, school age; we sure'n hell do need a schoolhouse. Rim's settlin' up fast. I always said, Tom, that you was white. I leave it to the boys here." Inside, Lance was not finding it so easy to make the announcement. Last Tuesday, Mary Hope had not understood just why he had ridden on ahead of her for two miles--she could see the small dust cloud kicked up by his horse on the Jumpoff trail, so there could be no mistake--when he knew perfectly well that she must ride that way, when he could not have failed to see her horse saddled and waiting at the door. It seemed to Mary Hope an obscure form of mockery to tell her not to be lonely--to tell her in a caressing tone that left with her all the effect of kisses--and then to ride away without one backward glance, one word of excuse. Until she had mounted and had seen him on the trail ahead, she had not realized how he had mocked her.