Tuesday I received an invitation from Aunt Adelaide to dine with them yesterday evening. I was to bring my mandolin, and after dinner Meta and I were to play from Iolanthe. The fairy music is very pretty on the mandolin.

There were to be a number of guests: an Englishman and his wife, a railroad president, and several others. Aunt Adelaide extends me one or two such informal invitations each winter. I expect she considers it her duty,—besides which it lends support to Meta, and two mandolins are better than one.

Naturally, the first question was as to clothes. Aunt Adelaide sees to it that two or three of Meta’s last season’s dresses are sent to me spring and fall. They are always chic, always pretty, and as we are very nearly of a size, they require little alteration. Yet, somehow, I hate to wear them,—especially in their native habitat, where I am perpetually haunted by the discomforting suggestion that they must be fatally familiar to all. However, it is expected; and Ernie declares that I ought to be grateful, since I am thus “provided with a wardrobe far above my station.”

She is too young to understand that that is just what I do not like. Last evening I wore a graceful little white surah frilled frock, garnished with artificial forget-me-nots. The idea! for a girl who expects to start in on the family-wash come Monday.

Uncle George’s house, as I have remarked before, is very imposing. There is a magnificent display of plate-glass windows, a flight of broad stone steps, and a really oppressive vestibule.

I was admitted by William, the coloured man, who took my instrument, and told me that “Miss Meta was above stairs; would I please go right up?”

Such a charming room as Meta has,—all rose and mossy green, with soft rugs, a desk, a bookcase, her favourite casts and photographs! Everything individual and personal,—which seems to me the greatest treat of all.

“Come in!” she answered to my knock, and turned half round before the cheval-glass, a pout upon her pretty face.

“Oh, Meta!” I cried, “how charming!” For the dress of which she was evidently trying the effect before the mirror was truly lovely,—a Nile green rajah silk, with lace under-sleeves and a touch of amber fluff at the throat.

“Do you think so?” returned Meta, “You haven’t really seen it yet. Come and look how this shoulder pulls. Now wouldn’t that jar you!”

“There isn’t much amiss,” I answered. “The underseam wants to be let out a little, that’s all.”

“I declare I’ll give Miss Murray fits,” returned Meta, her face flushing unpleasantly. “It was all I could do to get her to promise the thing for to-night, and then to send it home like this! She’s a big fake,—forever working on mamma’s sympathies with that cough of hers! I’m going to change, Elizabeth, see if I don’t! All the girls are going to Madam Delahasset, now; and I don’t see why I should be made to look like a frump, just because Miss Murray is delicate, and has a pair of aged parents to support!”

“You’re exaggerating, Meta,” I returned. “There is nothing the least frumpish about that frock. It’s the prettiest thing I have seen in ages,—and as to the shoulder, that’s easily remedied, and might have happened with any one.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Meta, uncertainly.

“Why, of course I do,” I replied. “And what is more, I think Miss Murray is a wonder—always so chic and original.”

“Well, I’m glad you like it,” admitted Meta, who is not difficult to bring around if only one is firm enough. “Mamma believes in her; but there is nothing that upsets me so much as a new frock. See,—won’t my amber buckle be the very ticket with this girdle?”

“It’s stunning,” I returned, and threw my hat and gloves upon the bed.

“You look well yourself, Elizabeth,” continued Meta, turning, jewel-case in hand, to sweep me an approving glance. “Somehow, I never appreciate how nice my things are till I see them on you. Those bunches of forget-me-nots, for instance, didn’t look half so cute when I wore them. But, mercy, child—what have you been doing with your hands?”

“Dish-washing,” I was forced to admit. “Are they very bad?”

“H’m’m,” returned Meta, in dubious assent. “It wouldn’t matter so much if we didn’t have to play. Don’t you ever use cold cream?” And then, quickly, before I had time to reply,—

“How can you bear it, Elizabeth?—truly, now,—your life, I mean?”

“My life?” I questioned. “You want me to answer honestly? Well, first place, it’s interesting; one never has a moment to be bored. Of course, there are plenty of worries, and a good deal happens that one doesn’t like; but the planning is exciting, and the sense of battle. Then, too, there are such lots of funny things! I’m convinced that nothing develops one’s sense of humour like being poor,—and it teaches one to love one’s family, and gives one plenty of chance to show it, too, without being sentimental; and, oh,—it’s good training in other ways. For instance, it would take a lot more than a new frock to upset me, Meta, and——”

Here I stopped, amazed. Either it was pride that made me answer so, or I had suddenly discovered that being poor is not altogether such bad luck! I, who have kicked so determinedly against the pricks;—longing for the luxuries we can’t afford;—resentful of Georgie because for him they are afforded. Well, I must do better now. Since, among the thorns, there are roses to be found, why not pluck and wear them?

Meta still stood before the mirror, trying the effect of the amber buckle.

“I don’t understand a word you’ve been saying,” she confessed. “I’m afraid you’re talking through your hat, Elizabeth. But, come on. Let’s go down now—I’m ready, since you think my rags will do.”

And we proceeded to the drawing-room, where we found Aunt Adelaide and a number of guests already assembled.

Geof did not appear till dinner was announced. He sat next me, and after an unenthusiastic greeting began upon the oysters. It was evident he was in one of his moods.

“How’s hockey coming on, Geof?” I asked, under cover of the general conversation.

“It’s not coming on at all,” returned Geof, glumly. “Probably shan’t play any more this season.”

“What!” I replied, for Geof is captain of his school team, a crack player, fast, and wonderfully clever. “Not even the Lakeville match? I thought you had it all arranged!”

“So we have,” muttered Geof, crumbling a bit of bread between his fingers. “The match’ll come off, all right;—under a different captain, that’s all.”

“Oh, Geoffrey!” I said; for I saw by his face and the nervous movements of his hand how deeply the matter cut. “What has happened? You’re not in trouble again at school?”

“I’d get on all right at school,” returned Geof, sullenly, “if only they’d stop nagging at home. It seems the Governor’s not pleased with my reports,—one can’t especially blame him for that,—and the ultimatum’s gone forth that I am to give up athletics,—my place on the team and all. He’s put up to it, of course. I’m sharp enough to know that.”

“But, Geoffrey,” I said, “if scholarship is the only difficulty, why don’t you buckle down and study? Aunt Adelaide is really anxious about you. Her motives are good,—and, after all, the matter rests in your own hands,—it isn’t hockey, as hockey, that is objected to. You know that.”

Geof turned from me. I saw that I would receive no further answer; and yet I felt sorry for the poor fellow, stubborn and headstrong as I know him to be.

When we returned to the drawing-room, Meta, Geof, and I retired to a window-recess, where we felt ourselves screened from observation.

“Mamma’s evenings are so dull,” Meta began, plaintively. “One puts on one’s best clothes, and then nothing happens at all! Seventeen is a hateful age anyway, it seems to me. One is not grown up, and yet one is no longer a kid. Fancy, Elizabeth! mamma says I am not to come out till I am twenty! Did you ever hear anything so unjust? All this talk about education makes me tired.”

“Much you have to complain of,” jeered Geof;—“a fudge party every other week, and girls so thick about the house one can’t move without stepping on ’em!”

“Oh, I’m not trying to infringe your patent,” replied Meta, smartly. “Did you know, Elizabeth, that Geof has taken out a patent on martyrdom, since he’s been forbidden athletics? He has even got to give up his beloved hockey. It’s a national misfortune, let me tell you.”

“That’s all you know about it,” returned Geof. “But who’d expect you to understand, anyhow? You haven’t an atom of sport in your make-up!”

He raised an excited arm as he spoke, and as ill luck would have it struck Meta rather sharply on the side of the head. I should have laughed had I been in her place, for it was not really much of a blow, and we were crowded so against the window-seat that accidents were only natural. But she cried out,—

“Geof! stop that! You hurt me!”

And Uncle George, who was standing near enough to overhear the exclamation, turned and rumbled in that heavy bass of his,—“Are you teasing your sister, sir? Leave the room;—since you can’t conduct yourself like a gentleman.”

Geof jumped up and looked at Meta, as if expecting her to explain; I waited, too; but never a word did she say. Then Geoffrey, very red and stormy, walked toward the door. How sorry I felt; for every one had turned at Uncle George’s voice, and it sounded brutal,—the way one would order a dog.

“Meta!” I whispered; “how could you? It was an accident—you know that perfectly well!”

Meta raised her hand to her hair with an airy little laugh. “He mussed my pompadour, all the same,” she explained. “And besides, Geof will understand. He knows perfectly well that I owed him one.”

I turned away, shocked and disgusted, and presently Aunt Adelaide asked us to play.

The music went well enough: people applauded, and declared it delightful; but, so far as I was concerned, the evening had proved anything but a success.

About half-past nine I made my adieus, and was conducted home under the wing of the dignified and awe-inspiring William.

Well, I had not had a pleasant time, but I think I learned a lesson. Meta’s question and my unexpected answer in return. Certainly, there are advantages in being poor;—for, under given circumstances, one would have to be so very selfish to be selfish at all, that that in itself is a safeguard.

Poor Geof! poor Meta! I lay awake and thought of them late into the night. They waste so much that is good and pleasant, and are not nearly as happy as any of us, whom they often pity, I feel sure.