at I've been crazy to go. He
and Louise couldn't help seeing how sore I was about it. But I never
said anything else."

"I'm thankful to hear that. One never knows what you will do."

Mrs. McGregor gave a sigh of relief and taking the card examined it.

"Perhaps," she presently observed in a gentler tone, "this invitation
has nothing to do with you. It may be possible that young Mr. Coulter
remembered how long your father worked in the mills and thought it
would be nice to ask us because of that. If so, it was very thoughtful
of him. And most likely the card was sent to you because he happened to
have heard your name. Goodness knows, with the messes you're in, I
should think all the town might be aware of it."

"And you'll go, Ma?" In his eagerness Carl brushed aside the
unflattering picture his mother's words presented.

"If I find it's a bona fide invitation and not some of your concocting
I'll go--not otherwise. It would be ungrateful to snub Mr. John if he
is trying to be kind. But the thing that makes me doubtful is that the
envelope should be addressed to you. Why wasn't the invitation sent to
me? I am the head of the family--or at least I attempt to be," amended
she with an upward curve of her lips.

"Oh, who cares, Ma, who the invitation was addressed to?" cut in Carl
impatiently. "The main thing is that it's come and we are going to the
party. I'd go had it been sent to James Frederick. What does it matter?
Say, Ma, isn't it lucky you hadn't loaned our clothes? We'll need 'em
ourselves now."

"When is the wedding?" Mary asked.

"Do you mean to say you don't even know?" inquired her brother with
scorn.

"I've forgotten."

"You have! Then you are the only person in Baileyville who has," was
the sarcastic rejoinder. "Well, if you must know, it's the day after
to-day."

"It will be a scramble to get ready, won't it, Mother?" commented the
practical Mary.

"There certainly will be a lot to do," Mrs. McGregor agreed. "However,
I guess we can manage if everybody will turn to."

"I'll help," announced Carl in a burst of magnanimousness. "I'll wash
and iron all my own clothes."

"I'd like a peep at the shirt you washed and ironed," taunted Mary in
derision.

"I fancy a peep would be enough," put in her mother, laughing. "No,
son, your talent does not lie in washing or ironing. But you can take
care of the youngsters while Mary and I do it. And, Mary, we'll have to
get a bunch of fresh flowers for yo