t's
quite the proper thing to do, you know."

"All right," and Ernestine ran down the hall.

"Oh, Olive! come with us; here's an invitation from Mrs. Richards. I'm
sorry I hurt your feelings; come on."

"I don't care for anything that you said, and I've something to think
about besides invitations. Go away, will you?"

"Oh, certainly," and having glibly uttered her penitent speech, Ernestine
cared nothing about its reception, but hurried back to discuss their
dress with Beatrice.

"But mama has not said that we can go," said Bea, caressing the tinted
paper, as she interrupted an enthusiastic speech that was making
Ernestine's eyes glow like diamonds.

"But she will; why shouldn't she? Any how I'm going to believe that she
will, I will wear my silk and my new scarf, and borrow mama's laces for
the sleeves, and her white comb, and jewelry with the bracelets, if she
will loan them;--do you suppose she will?"

"No, I know she won't; she'll think it's too much dress for a young
girl. Wear flowers."

"Nonsense! I won't. I want the jewelry. What will you wear?"

"My cashmere; it's all I've got," and Bea sighed a little, for she did
love to look nice. "The sleeves are dreadfully worn, and the over-skirt
isn't the latest; but it can't be made over again, and I can't afford to
spend a cent."

"Never mind," said Ernestine, who could, and did readily advise what she
disliked to practice. "Brush it up good, put ink over the little hole in
the sleeve, and I'll loop the over-skirt so that it looks later in
style, and loan you my blue bows."

"I suppose you will," returned Bea petulantly, for the temper, though
appeased, was still awake and alert. "You're quick enough to loan me
what you don't want yourself, and to say for me to go in an
old-fashioned dress, with the holes inked up, and no jewelry; when you
want silk and laces, and all the jewelry; you are generous."

"Oh, well, you may have the--the things if she will loan them; don't get
fussy," said Ernestine, not a trifle abashed. "Who do you suppose will
be there?"

"Whoever she invites, I suppose," answered Bea, still ruffled.

"And I expect Dell will be dressed beautifully; oh, dear, how nice it
would be to be rich," sighed Ernestine.

"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have so much, and others to
have to scrimp and pinch, and then have nothing," cried Bea,
exaggerating her woes, as is usual, when one is determined to think
one's self the worst abused