“A fault that can be easily remedied, and--suppose we did succeed, would you belong to us?” “I’m afraid I would,” he agreed smilingly. Here the music of the two-step stopped, and Uncle Josh, the old negro fiddler, famous the country over for calling the figures of the dance, straightened himself with dignity, and called loudly: “Pardners for de las’ waltz ’fore supper!” Dorothy could not keep the mirth from her lips. Uncle Josh was not measuring time by heartbeats but the cravings of his stomach; his immortal soul was his immortal appetite. However, whatever motive inspired him to fix the supper time, it proved efficacious, and partners were soon chosen and the dancing began again as vigorously as ever. Dorothy and Elliott were not slow in joining the other dancers and glided through the dreamy measures which Uncle Josh, despite his longing to eat, drew forth sweetly from his old, worn fiddle. He was the soul of melody and had an eye to widening his range of selections and his inimitable technique appreciating the demands upon his art. When, with an extra flourish, Uncle Josh eventually brought the music to an end, Mr. Carr, with his easy Southern manner, courteously invited every one in to supper. He led the way, accompanied by Elliott Harding and Dorothy. How pretty the dining-room looked! Its half-light coming through soft low tones of pink. Big rosy balls of sweet clover, fresh from the home fields, were massed in cream tinted vases, bunched over pictures and trailed down in lovely confusion about the window and straggling over door frames. Upon the long table stood tall candlesticks and candelabras many prismed, with branching vines twisted in and out in quaint fashion, bearing tall candles tipped with pink shades. From the centre of the ceiling to each corner of the room first, then to regular distances, were loosely stretched chains of pink and white clovers. Large bows of ribbon held these lengths in place where they met the chair board. In each corner close to the wall were jars which, in their pretty pink dresses of crinkled paper held in place by broad ribbon sashes, would scarcely be recognized as the old butter pots of our grandmothers’ days. From these jars grew tufts of rooted clover. Even the old fireplace and broad mantel were decked with these blossoms. At each side of the table stood two glass bowls filled with branches of clover leaves only; one lot tied with pink ribbon, the other with white. When supper was served these bowls were passed around while Dorothy repeated the pretty tradition of the four-leaf clover. Then commenced the merry hunt for the prize that only two could win. Bright eyes and deft fingers searched their leaves through.