ly over!"
yawned Sally.

Martie looked at the clock. A quarter past eleven. What would be
happening at quarter past eleven to-morrow night?

The girls awakened early, and were early astir. A rush of preparation
filled the morning, so soothing in its effect upon nerves and muscles
that Martie became wild with hope. The parlours looked prettier than
the girls had ever seen them; the pungent sweetness of chrysanthemums
and evergreen stealing into the clean, well-aired spaces, and bowls of
delicious violets sending out currents of pure perfume. Martie swept,
straightened, washed gas globes, shook rugs. She gathered the flowers
herself, straightening the shoulders that were beginning to ache as she
arranged them with wet, cool fingers. Sally was counting napkins,
washing china and glass. Belle dragged through the breakfast dishes.
Lydia was capably mixing the filling for sandwiches. Outside, the
morning was still; fog dripped from the trees. Sometimes the sudden
sputtering chuckle of disputing chickens broke the quiet; a fish cart
rattled by unseen, the blare of the horn sending Mrs. Monroe with a
large empty platter to the gate.

At two o'clock Lydia and Martie walked down town for the last shopping.
Martie was aware, under the drumming excitement in her blood, that she
was already tired. But to buy bottled cherries for the lemonade, olives
for the sandwiches, and flat pink and white mint candies was
exhilarating, and Reddy Johnson's cheery "See you to-night, Martie!"
made her blue eyes dance with pleasure. After all, a dance was no such
terrible matter!

They were in Mason and White's, seated at a counter, in consultation
over a purchase of hairpins, when two gloved hands were suddenly
pressed over Martie's eyes, and a joyous voice said "Hello!" The next
instant Rose's eyes were laughing into hers.

"Rose Ransome!" Martie and Lydia said together. The two younger girls
began to chatter eagerly.

Why, when had she gotten home? Only this morning. And oh, it did seem
so good to be home! And how was everybody? And how was college? Oh,
fine! And was she still at the same house? Oh, yes! And so poor old
Mrs. Preble was dead? Uncle Ben had felt so badly--

"Say, Rose, we're having a sort of party to-night," Martie said
awkwardly, and with a certain hesitation. Details followed. Rose, as
pretty as a bird in her little checked suit and feathered hat, listened
with bright interest. "Why can't you come?" Martie finished eager