ss at her window in the twilight, sat Miss Ponsonby,
crying. I had never seen Miss Ponsonby cry before.

"What is the matter?" I called out softly and anxiously.

"Oh, nothing," sobbed Miss Ponsonby, "only--only--I'm invited to the
party tonight--Susan Hubbard is my cousin, you know--and I would like
so much to go."

"Then why don't you?" said Jerry briskly.

"My father won't let me," said Miss Ponsonby, swallowing a sob as if
she were a little girl of ten years old. Jerry had to dodge behind the
curtain to hide a smile.

"It's too bad," I said sympathetically, but wondering a little why
Miss Ponsonby seemed so worked up about it. I knew she had sometimes
been invited out before and had not been allowed to go, but she had
never cared apparently.

"Well, what is to be done?" I whispered to Jerry.

"Take Miss Ponsonby to the party with us, of course," said Jerry,
popping out from behind the curtain.

I didn't ask her if she expected to fly through the air with Miss
Ponsonby, although short of that I couldn't see how the latter was to
be got out of the house without her father knowing. The old gentleman
had a den off the hall where he always sat in the evening and smoked
fiercely, after having locked all the doors to keep the servants in.
He was a delightful sort of person, that old Mr. Ponsonby.

Jerry poked her head as far as she could out of the window. "Miss
Ponsonby, you are going to the dance," she said in a cautious
undertone, "so don't cry any more or your eyes will be dreadfully
red."

"It is impossible," said Miss Ponsonby resignedly.

"Nothing is impossible when I make up my mind," said Jerry firmly.
"You must get dressed, climb down that acacia tree, and join us in our
yard. It will be pitch dark in a few minutes and your father will
never know."

I had a frantic vision of Miss Ponsonby scrambling down that acacia
tree like an eloping damsel. But Jerry was in dead earnest, and really
it was quite possible if Miss Ponsonby only thought so. I did not
believe she would think so, but I was mistaken. Her thorough course in
Libbey heroines and their marvellous escapades had quite prepared her
to contemplate such an adventure calmly--in the abstract at least. But
another obstacle presented itself.

"It's impossible," she said again, after her first flash hope. "I
haven't a fit dress to wear--I've nothing at all but my black cashmere
and it is three years old."

But the more hindrances in Jerry's way