"Let down a tuck," my grandmother said, decisively. "That would lengthen it."

"Oh, do let down a tuck, mother!" I echoed, eagerly.

I had a little pink envelope hugged up close against my apron. On the outside it had "Miss Rhoda Harcourt" written in very large letters, and on the inside it invited me to a party! I was not quite sure what people did at a party; but I knew it must be something delightful, judging from the commotion the pink envelope made in the family. There was a whirlwind of talk about white dresses, and new slippers, and blue bows, and in the midst of the discussion Auntie May caught up her dress and danced.

"Come here, Rhoda," she called. "This is what they do at a party. Come. I will teach you how."

I braced my back, stiffly, and let her haul me around. This was a serious matter, and must be undertaken with a sober mind.

"She hasn't any spring in her," Auntie May exclaimed, ruefully. "Who would think that she is related to me!"

"She does not come of a dancing family," my grandmother replied, with a cold smile. "The Harcourts look after their souls, and let their feet alone."

Auntie May made a wry face. She was my mother's sister.

"Don't shut up like a knife, Rhoda," she said, disconsolately. "Let yourself go. There, I believe the Lawrence side of the family is waking up at last!"

She looked so pretty as she danced in the firelight that I tried to be like her. I copied her courtesies, and followed her steps, and when, at length, she fell breathlessly into a chair, I leaned against her knee with my hand on her pink cheek.

"Auntie May, are you going, too?" I asked, confidentially.

Somehow I thought it would be rather nice to have Auntie May there, just for company.

"Child!" she cried, with a grand air, "it's a children's party. I am sixteen!"

I felt the rebuke. I was only seven myself, and there were whole centuries between us. It was strange, though, how sometimes Auntie May would play with my dolls, and sometimes she would tuck up her hair and keep me at arm's length. I never knew which she was going to be—little girl or grown woman.

Auntie May did not live with us, but in another house with a lady who called herself my frivolous grandmother, and curled her hair every day of her life. Grandmother Harcourt wore sober black silk dresses, but this other grandmother liked blue and pink, and even sometimes a gallant touch of red that made her look almost young again. Whenever she looked her youngest, she was greatly pleased, and curled her hair triumphantly. At family meetings the two grandmothers often made those curls the subject for discussion, and oftener still it was my dress and manners which never seemed to suit either of them. One wanted me very quiet and subdued, and dressed in gingham, and the other wanted me very gay and lively, and dressed in silk. As grandmother Harcourt lived in our house, she had the advantage, and, save for occasional bursts of splendor, I went in great meekness of spirit and dress.

I had thought at first that there was going to be trouble about the party. My frivolous grandmother objected seriously to the idea of that tuck. She seemed to think that I should look very shabby among the other little girls. She spoke of her position, and of the great pleasure that it would give her to buy me a dress.

"Nellie," she urged, almost with tears in her eyes, "let me buy Rhoda a suitable dress. You surely don't want that unfortunate child to go to the Otway's with a tuck let down!"

Grandmother Harcourt did not say anything. I fancy that she must have had it all arranged beforehand, for, after a rather appealing look at her, my mother declined the offer in a faint, reluctant voice.

I did not care what I wore. I was going to a party. That was enough for me. All the night before I could not sleep, and when, at last, the hour drew near, and I stood before my mother while she gave a final touch to my floating hair, I felt that it was all a dream. It was a dream going down the stairs while the twins, in their nightgowns, peeped after me, and it was a dream getting into the carriage which Auntie May had brought to take me. The very streets were a dream, with little white-clad girls passing in our direction and little boys, with stiff white collars and solemn faces, walking along behind them. And most of all that big house on the hill was a dream, with the lights shining in all its windows, and the rows of Chinese lanterns in the piazza, and a nearby violin letting off cheerful notes of preparation.

"Mrs. Otway is giving this party for the two little grandchildren who are visiting her," Auntie May said, peering out of the carriage window. "They come from the city. They are cousins. You saw them in church on Sunday."

So that was who they were! I felt that I had learned something. Only the Sunday before there had come into the pew before me, first a little boy, and then a little girl, followed by a party of ladies. The little boy sat up in the far end of the pew, just as I did, and he had a high silk hat laid on the cushion beside him, and an elegant cane with a silver head to which he seemed much attached. I never noticed little boys as a rule. I divided them into two classes: boys who walked clumsily, in heavy boots, and glanced sidewise at me, and bad boys who made awful faces from behind trees. Never to one of them had I said a single word. That boy, however, was something quite different. I knew that as soon as I looked at him. He had a light graceful figure, and brave, beautiful eyes. When he gazed over his shoulder and smiled at me, I felt strangely pleased. It was as though some one whom I had known a long time ago had come again.

"Oh, so he is Theodore Otway!" I cried, unguardedly, remembering the name on my pink invitation.

Auntie May laughed a whole minute, just about nothing at all.

"You get down here, Rhoda," she said. "Now, remember to shake out your hair the way that I showed you. And don't you get frightened as you always do. Your dress isn't very fine; but there is one thing that is nice about it. It has real lace basted in the neck. Mother put it in. Just fancy, grandmother Harcourt never noticed! Always give your right hand first in the ladies' chain. You are the only little girl who has come in a carriage. Oh, dear me, I wish that it wasn't a children's party! I'd just love to go in! The lovely, lovely music! What shall you do, Rhoda, if you get very frightened?"

"I'll shut my eyes, and think that I'm in church," I answered, soberly.

"Good heavens!" I heard her cry as the carriage drove away, "there's the other side of the family coming out after all!"

I went up the steps rather breathlessly. There was a big lump rising in my throat, as if I had run miles and miles. I wondered if they would let me in, or if I would have to say what my name was. I was not real sure in my mind that I knew what my name was. Once, years ago, I had been called Rhoda, but Rhoda always went to bed at seven o'clock. This was a new little girl, a fairy child, who walked under globes of fire straight into fairy-land.

Up, up, I went, past a man with shining buttons who held the door open very graciously for me, past shrubs and flowers banked along the staircase, into a room where there was a great hum of voices. Ever so many little girls, dozens of them, were taking off their hats, and shaking out their skirts, and doing what grandmother called "prinking" before a great glass. I prinked a little myself, following out Auntie May's directions. I thought that I looked rather nice. A woman in a white cap seemed to think so, too. She took a great deal of pains with me, and when the other little girls, who knew one another, went down the stairs in a group, she led me by the hand to the staircase, and showed me where to go.

It was very hard to walk down the stairs alone. I had such a queer feeling, and I could not see a thing for a mist before my eyes. I went quite slowly, step by step. I could hear the people in the parlor talking.

A lady said, "How pretty!" and a boy's voice cried, "Here she is! Here she is, at last!"

Then in a moment some one was shaking my hand. Little by little the mist cleared from before my eyes, and I saw that I was at the party.

The parlor was a long room, running the whole length of the house, but it looked crowded that night. There were groups of little girls, all those whom I had seen upstairs, and more besides, and lots and lots of little boys who stood in corners and laughed among themselves. There were lights on the walls and flowers everywhere, and the few grown-up people who moved about seemed just as gay and festive as the children. By the door were stationed Theodore Otway and his cousin, and she had on a lovely pink dress with cascades of little bows falling down her back. All the grown-up ladies seemed to watch her, and when she pranced and shook her bows I heard a lady say, "Paris!" in an awed tone.

There was such a hubbub everywhere that I did not notice at first that a boy, whom I had never seen before, was writing his name on my programme. He was quite a stout boy in tight clothes.

"I'll take this first one, just to make sure," he said. "Maybe, after awhile, I'll dance with you again. Don't you forget what I look like."

"No," I answered, humbly.

"That's right," he continued, patronizingly. "What's your name?"

I told him in a bashful whisper.

"Well, you want to watch out, and when I holler 'Rhoda' you come where I am. That will be when the music strikes up. Don't forget."

"No," I said again.

"If you are not there, I might take some other girl," he remarked, as a final caution.

Theodore Otway was going by, led by a lady. She was arguing seriously with him.

"Of course you must dance the first dance with your cousin!" I heard her cry. "I told you yesterday that you must. You can ask the little girl some other time."

He gave me a miserable glance as he went to the other end of the room.

I hardly noticed him. I was so worried over the stout boy, who roved about the room, here and there and everywhere. Once he hid behind a sofa, and once he went out in the hall to get a drink of lemonade. He unbuttoned his jacket, and tried to make himself look different by crossing his eyes. I was sure that he did. And, just when the music struck up, he disappeared altogether! The other little girls all had partners. I was the only one left out. I felt it very keenly.

Suddenly I heard some one shout, "Rhoda!"

I turned around, and there he was behind my chair, where he had been standing all the time.

"Come along," he said, just as if it were my fault, although there was a look of elation about him. "If you don't hurry up, we won't get in the top set. That's the nicest of all."

I followed him, meekly. I was very glad to find him again, but I felt an inward conviction that I should never get used to boys.

It was not hard to dance. Somehow it was more fun than it had been at home with Auntie May. I always remembered to give my right hand first in the ladies' chain, and when I met my partner I courtesied to him every time. I did not forget a single thing! The music was very lively, and everybody was smiling, even the grown-up people at the other end of the room who danced and romped among themselves. I thought that I should like to go on forever, back and forth, and in and out in the ladies' chain. I wished that the music would never stop, but it did, at last, with a sudden chord, and we were all ready for something else.

It was a game this time, a strange, new game called "Post-office." It began by a little girl leaving the room, mysteriously, and calling a little boy out into the hall to receive a letter.

"There's a letter in the post-office for Davie Williams," she cried, in a shrill, high voice that sounded frightened.

All the other little girls laughed. Davie Williams grew very red in the face, but he went out for his letter, and closed the door carefully behind him.

I wondered why he stayed so long, and what they could possibly be doing behind the door. It was very exciting. Suppose, just suppose, that there should be a letter for me! More little girls went out, and more little boys. The girls tossed their heads, and the boys went quickly, as though to get it over. One boy called out another boy instead of a little girl, and was laughed at. I did not think that I should like to be laughed at. Then Theodore Otway went out and I heard my name.

He was waiting for me with his hands in his pockets.

"Hello," he said, in a diffident way.

"Hello," I answered, shyly fingering my hair.

I looked about for the wonderful something which I had come to see. There was nothing, only the hall and Theodore Otway still with his hands in his pockets. Strange to say he seemed embarrassed. He fidgeted. He talked in jerks.

"I saw you in church," he said, suddenly.

I nodded at him.

"I saw you, too," I confessed, with a shamefaced smile.

He came a step nearer, and hesitated.

"Say," he said, "I don't live in this house when I'm home."

"No?" I answered, inquiringly.

"No," he replied, seriously.

We were both silent. There did not seem to be anything more to talk about. Still it was rather nice out in the hall.

Somebody rattled the knob. Evidently our turn was over.

"Who's going to take you out to supper?" he asked, with sudden interest.

"I don't know," I answered.

"Well, let me take you, won't you? You'd better. There's a boy here who plays tricks on little girls!"

I shivered. Was it the stout boy?

"Once he made a little girl cry out loud at a party! You'd better. Will you? Say yes."

He came a little closer. He put out his hand, and touched my hair.

"It's like sunshine!" he cried, with a burst of enthusiasm.

I stole a shy glance at him. Nobody had ever told me that before.

"Say yes!" he begged, in a new tone.

"Yes," I whispered, hiding my face behind my hair.

Somebody rattled the knob again. They were growing impatient.

"Well, good-bye," he said, in a hurried way. His hands were back in his pockets.

"Good-bye," I answered.

He went toward the door, then turned again, as if he had forgotten something, and stood thinking.

"Will you give me that?" he asked, pointing to a wee blue bow on my sleeve.

I unpinned it, and laid it in his hand. He fastened it to the front of his coat. He strutted a little as he went into the parlor. I could see by his smile that he was pleased.

It was my turn now, and I must call a little boy, for that was what all the girls did. I looked in the parlor, undecidedly. There was the stout boy going by with a cheerful wink, and away in the back of the room a nice little fairhaired boy named Eddie was watching me, wistfully. I called Eddie, with sudden fearlessness. He came with a rush, and closed the door behind him. Then he kissed me before I could say a single word! I pushed him away, and began to cry. Even through my bitter tears I could see his astonished face. How was he to know that all my life I had hated to be kissed by strangers. And now by a boy!

"Why, that's the game!" he cried, eagerly. "What did you call me out for?"

"I don't know," I answered, sobbing.

He gazed at me with a worried look. Then he pulled out a fat, white lozenge from his vest pocket, and offered it to me.

"Here, take that," he said, generously.

I examined it through my tears with strong disfavor. It looked like medicine. Still I did not want to hurt his feelings. I ate it with misgivings.

"That's right," he said, radiantly. "They are good for sore throat. My father takes them. Don't you feel better now?"

"Yes," I answered, with a weak smile.

It was evident that in his way he meant to be kind, and, perhaps, after all the lozenge like the kiss might be a part of the game.

They were dancing in the parlor when we went back, and the fun was growing loud and furious. One little girl was singing, rapturously, as she danced, and two little boys were sliding in a corner. There was talk of supper. Somebody, peeking through a keyhole, had seen pink ice-cream, and had come away dazzled. The great hour was drawing near, and little boys were going about looking for their partners. Up at the end of the room Theodore's mother was talking to him.

He came to me afterwards, with a crest-fallen air:

"Say," he said, "I can't take you out to supper. I have to take my cousin. She says so."

He looked back over his shoulder, threateningly.

"What she says now, goes. When I'm a man things will be different. Ain't you sorry I can't take you out?"

"Yes," I confessed, candidly.

He seemed to be glad that I should be sorry.

"He's going to take you out," he continued, with a jealous nod at the stout boy. "She asked him to."

I did not want to go with the stout boy. Every time that he looked sidewise at me I felt a sudden fear. Suppose that it should be a trick! Suppose that he should think of something new to do right now! When the inspiring march began, however, and we all fell into line, each little girl on the arm of her partner, I forgot everything in my excitement, and grew almost reconciled.

We passed solemnly around the parlor three times, and then swept across the hall into an opposite room. In the center of the room there stood a beautiful table, and the woman in the white cap, who was the only grown person in sight, was serving out pink ice-cream. The little girls sat on chairs about the walls, and the little boys brought them plates full of goodies from the table. There were lovely things which I had never seen before, much too pretty to eat, and almost too fragile to touch. And over the whole room there fell the soft light of candles.

"Do you like ice-cream?" the stout boy asked, when he had seen me settled in my chair. "I tell you what I'll do. I'll pick out all the things that I like."

He was a wonderful provider. I could see him heaping up my plate, and he always seemed to take the best of everything. No other girl was going to have such mammoth slices of cake as I, and he had a perfect pyramid of candy in his hand. I knew that I could never eat it all, no, not a half. Somehow he did not seem able to find me afterwards. I beckoned to him, but still he turned aside, and went toward a far corner. He was sitting down! He was going to eat the things himself! Was it a trick? I looked down hard in my lap. Never, no, never, should he make me cry out loud at a party!

I heard a sudden sound of wrath. I turned around just in time to see Theodore Otway tip the stout boy over on the floor, and sit on him. He seemed to be very angry. He pounded the stout boy. I was almost afraid to look. The woman in the white cap left off serving pink ice-cream, and made a dreadful outcry.

"Oh, Master Theodore," she cried, wringing her hands. "Oh, Master Theodore! You mustn't do that! It's not polite!"

A little boy cheered faintly, and in the next room, where the older people were having their supper, there was a hurried consultation. Then Mrs. Otway came in.

"What is all this?" she asked, in astonishment, looking as if she could not believe her eyes. "Theodore!"

She caught him by the arm, and dragged him up in a hurry.

"For shame!" she cried. "What a way to treat your company! I'm going to put you right straight to bed."

A shudder ran around the room, and we all looked at one another in horror. To be put to bed at a party! There was a disgrace.

"I don't care," Theodore retorted, recklessly, with tears in his eyes. "I'd do it again any day. He's a greedy pig!"

I stole up and slipped my hand in his. Somehow I did not like to see him cry.

"He was eating that little girl's supper," a chorus of eager little boys explained. "He was eating it all up!"

"I wasn't either," the stout boy declared, hastily. "I was only pretending." He dusted off his knees, and looked around the incredulous circle. "I tell you I was only pretending. I was going to bring it to her all right afterwards."

Nobody believed him, not even I, for had I not seen him eating the pink ice-cream?

"You had better come with me," Mrs. Otway said, laughingly. "Come. You can finish your supper in the next room."

It was very pleasant after she had taken him away. Every one was so good to me. There were lots of nice things left on the table, and Theodore filled the largest plate that he could find. Other little boys stood around to watch me eat, and gave me presents. One gave me his jackknife, and one gave me a penny which he had brightened to gold by rubbing it on the carpet. When we went back in the parlor there were dozens and dozens of little boys who wanted to dance with me. I could not tell whom to choose. Then, in hardly a moment, Auntie May looked in the door, and I knew that the party was over, and I must go home.

I told Theodore good-bye last of all.

"Good-bye," he said, slipping a little brass curtain-ring on my left hand. "I'm coming back when I'm a man. Then we'll get married, and live in a house. And I'll shoot rabbits for dinner. Would you like that?"

"Yes," I answered, promptly.

He surveyed me for an anxious moment. Our heads were very nearly on a level.

"Don't you grow too tall," he cautioned.

"No," I promised, and was half-way to the door, when he caught me again by the hand.

"If anybody makes you cry," he whispered, ardently, "you write to me, and I'll come back."

I gave him a grateful smile. I knew that he would.

Auntie May said very little as the carriage rolled along, but when, at last, we reached home, she swept me in before the assembled family.

"There were ten little boys telling her good-night," she cried, breathlessly, in a voice divided between awe and delight. "Ten little boys! Just fancy! Our Rhoda! She was a great success. She was the prettiest one there."

My mother put out a tender hand and drew me to her.

"And did you have a good time at the party, Rhoda?" she asked, eagerly. "A real good time, little girl?"

I looked around the listening family circle. They were all watching me. Yes, even my father over his paper.

"I don't know," I answered, bashfully.

"Of course she didn't," grandmother cried, nodding her head triumphantly. "Of course she didn't. She's a Harcourt all over."

I looked down at my little brass ring. I felt that grandmother was wrong.