h you could go to the lawn party."

"Of course I'd love to go," Mary confessed honestly. "But if we can't I
don't see any use in mourning about it and talking of nothing else."

"I _have_ to talk about it. I think of it every minute."

"Put it out of your head."

"I can't."

"Nonsense! You don't try. Why don't you set about doing something and
forget it instead of sitting round mooning and working yourself all up?
You can run down and get the mail right now. There's the bell. Maybe
it's a letter from Uncle Frederick."

Welcoming the diversion her brother rose with alacrity. He was in a
mood when any excitement, no matter how trivial, was a boon. Down the
stairs he ran only to return a second later with a square white
envelope in his hand.

"Is it from Uncle Frederick?" queried Mary eagerly.

"Nope!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, we haven't heard from him for ever so long. I do hope
nothing's the matter. Who is the letter from?"

"I don't know."

Something in the reticence of the reply caused the girl to glance up.

"I'll take it in to Mother," volunteered she, holding out her hand.

"It isn't for Mother," Carl answered slowly.

"Not for Mother? How funny! None of the rest of us ever have letters.
Who is it for?"

"It happens to be mine."

"Carl!" Dismay and apprehension vibrated in the word.

"Yes, it's mine," her brother repeated. His obvious attempt to carry
off the episode in jaunty fashion failed, however, and it was evident
by his tense tones that he echoed Mary's alarm.

"But who on earth can be writing to you?" demanded his sister.

"I--I--don't know." The boy fingered the envelope with uneasiness. Mary
came nearer.

"Carl, what have you been up to now?" asked she. "That looks like the
teacher's writing. Aren't you going to be promoted or what is the
matter?"

"How do I know until I read the thing?" snapped Carl.

"You're not in any scrape?"

"Not that I know of."

"Honestly?"

"I tell you I can't think of any. On my honor I can't."

"Oh, well then, it's probably about your work. Most likely you're
behind the class in something and Miss Dewey wants to see you. Why
don't you buck up and find out what she has to say?"

"I'm going to in a minute."

"You're afraid to open that letter. You've done something at school you
don't want Mother and me to know about."

"I tell you I haven't."

"Then why, for pity's sake, don't you read what Miss Dewey has written
instead of looking at the note as