The fun went on after that with more moderation, and everybody had a pleasant time. That is, so supposed Hiram Strong until, in going out of the barn again to get a breath of cool air after one of the dances, he almost stumbled over a figure hiding in a corner, and crying.  
“Why, Sister!” he cried, taking the girl by the shoulders, and turning her about. “What's the matter?”
 
“Oh, I want to go home, Hi. This isn't any place for me. Let me—me run—run home!” she sobbed¹.
 
“I guess not! Who's bothered you? Has that Pete Dickerson come back?”
 
“No!” sobbed Sister.
 
“What is it, then?”
 
“They—they don't want me here. They don't like me.”
 
“Who don't?” demanded Hiram, sternly.
 
“Those—those girls from St. Beris. I—I tried to dance, and I slipped on some of that horrid² soap and—and fell down. And they said I was clumsy. And one said:
 
“'Oh, all these country girls are like that. I don't see what Let wanted them here for.'
 
“'So't we could all show off better,' said another, laughing some more.
 
“And I guess that's right enough,” finished Sister. “They don't want me here. Only to make fun of. And I wish I hadn't come.”
 
Hiram was smitten³ dumb for a moment. He had danced once with Lettie, but the other town girls had given him no opportunity to do so. And it was plain that Lettie's school friends preferred the few boys who had come up from town to any of the farmers' sons who had come to the husking.
 
“I guess you're right, Sister. They don't want us—much,” admitted Hiram, slowly.
 
“Then let's both go home,” said Sister, sadly.
 
“No. That wouldn't be serving Mr. Bronson—or Lettie—right. We were invited in good faith, I reckon, and the Bronsons haven't done anything to offend us.
 
“But you and I'll go back there and dance together. You dance with me—or with Henry; and I'll stick to the country girls. If Lettie Bronson's friends from boarding school think they are so much better than us folks out here in the country, let us show them that we can have a good time without them.”
 
“Oh, I'll go back with you, Hiram,” cried Sister, gladly, and the young fellow was a bit conscience-stricken as he noted⁴ her changed tone and saw the sparkle that came into her eye.
 
Had he neglected Sister because Lettie Bronson was about? Well! perhaps he had. But he made up for it with the attention he paid to Sister during the remainder of the evening.
 
They went home early, however, and Hiram felt somewhat grave after the corn husking. Had Lettie Bronson invited the country-bred young folk living about her father's home, to meet her boarding school friends, and the town boys, merely that the latter might be compared with the farmer-folk to their disfavor?
 
He could not believe that—really. Lettie Bronson might be thoughtless, and a little proud; but she was still a princess to Hiram, and he could not think this evil of her.
 
But there were too many duties every day for the young farmer to give much thought to such problems. Harvesting was not complete yet, and soon flurries of snow began to drive across the fields and threaten the approach of winter.
 
Finally the wind came out of the northwest for more than a day, and toward evening the flakes⁵ began to fall, faster and faster, thicker and thicker.
 
“It's going to be a snowy night—a real baby blizzard,” declared Hiram, stamping his feet on the porch before coming into the warm kitchen with the milkpail.
 
“Oh, dear! And I thought you'd go over to Pollock's with me to-night, Hi,” said Sister.
 
“Mabel an' I are goin' to make our Christmas presents together, and she's expecting me.”
 
“Shucks! 'Twon't be fit for a girl to go out if it snows,” said Mother Atterson.
 
But Hiram saw that Sister was much disappointed, ............