THE four girls were wonderfully excited all the next day. They were restless in school and fidgety at home.

"A body would think," scoffed Aunty Jane, at noon, "that you were going to your own wedding. Don't worry so. I'll have everything ready for you to put on the moment you get out of school."

"Oh, thank you," breathed Marjory, fervently. "That'll help a lot; but I do hope that Bettie's father will remember to do those cards. And, Aunty Jane, could you lend me a perfectly inkless hankerchief?"

"Jumping January!" growled Wallace Mapes, Jean's older brother. "That makes nineteen times, Jean, that you've reminded me of those miserable shoes. I'll black them when I've finished lunch. I'm not going to rush off in the middle of my oyster soup to black anybody's best shoes."

"Is it a reception?" asked Roger.

"No," replied Wallace, "just a formal call on Henrietta Bedford."

"She's in my French class," said Roger. "And kippered snakes! You ought to hear her recite. She talks up and down and all around poor little Miss McGinnis, whose French was made right here in Lakeville. It's a daily picnic."

"You won't forget my shoes, will you?" reminded anxious Jean.

"I'd like to know how I could," demanded Wallace, feelingly.

Although Mabel had taken a most complete bath the night before, she spent the noon-hour taking another. She put on her best stockings and shoes, but looked doubtfully at her Sunday suit.

"If I have to do my language in ink," reflected she, "it'll be all up with my clothes. I'll just have to change after school."

The girls were out by half-past three. Fortunately, Miss Rossitor needed no more cows that afternoon, so Bettie was home in good season. All four dressed speedily. Three of them got into their gloves unassisted; but Jean, Marjory and Bettie found plump, impatient Mabel seated on the piano stool with her mother working over one hand, her perspiring father over the other. Several other gloves that had proved too small were scattered on the floor.

"You needn't think," said Mabel, greeting her friends with an expressive grimace, "that I ever picked out these lemon-colored frights. Somebody sent 'em for Christmas. None of the pretty ones were big enough—I've tried four pairs."

"Neither are these," returned Mrs. Bennett, "and the color certainly is outrageous, but it's Hobson's choice. And just remember, Mabel, if you touch a single door-knob they'll be black before you get there. And don't put your hands in your pockets. And please don't rub them along the fences. There! Mine's on as far as it will go."

"I guess you'd better finish this one," said Dr. Bennett, abandoning his task. "I rather tackle a case of smallpox than wrestle with another job like that. She'd look much better in mittens."

"Mittens!" snubbed Mabel. "You can't make formal calls in mittens! Now, Somebody, please put me into my jacket and hat, if I'm not to touch anything."

The decidedly depressed four, in their Sunday best, started down the street. Mabel's gloves, owing to their brilliant color, were certainly conspicuous, and unconsciously she made them more so by the careful and rigid manner in which she carried them. It was plain that she had them very much on her mind. And when her hat tilted forward over one eye she left it there rather than risk damaging those immaculate lemon-hued gloves.

"Take my muff," implored Marjory. "That yellow splendor lights up the whole street."

"No, siree," declined Mabel. "If Mrs. Slater wants gloves she's going to have 'em. Do you think I'm going to suffer like this and not have 'em show?"

So Mabel, a swollen, imprisoned but gorgeous hand dangling at each side, a big navy-blue hat flopping over one eye, strutted muffless down the street.

"That's the house," announced Jean, as they turned the corner. "That big one with the covered driveway."

"Ugh!" shuddered Marjory, "it gives me chills to think of ringing such a wealthy doorbell. Are the cards safe, Bettie? My! I hope you haven't lost them."

"In my pocket in an envelope," assured Bettie.

"Can you see any white?" queried Jean, nervously. "I think my top petticoat has broken loose."

"It seems all right," said Marjory, stooping to test it with little sharp jerks. "Firm as the Rock of Gibraltar."

"It won't be if you pull like that," objected Jean.

"Somebody open the gate," requested Mabel. "I can't touch things."

"Everybody stand up straight," commanded Marjory. "We must look our best when we go up the walk."

"I wish I hadn't come," demurred Bettie, hanging back, diffidently. "Let's wait till it's darker."

"No," asserted Jean. "We'd better get it over."

"Yes," agreed Mabel, "I don't want to wear these gloves a minute longer than I have to."

"All right," sighed Bettie, despondently, "but you go first, Jean."

They had waited on the imposing doorstep for a long five minutes when it occurred to Marjory to ask if any one had pushed the bell.

"No," replied Jean, with a surprised air. "I thought you had."

"And I," said Bettie, "supposed that Mabel had."

"How could I," demanded Mabel, hotly, "in these gloves?"

And then, all four began to giggle. Never before had such an inopportune fit of helpless, hysterical giggling seized the Cottagers. No one could stop. Tears rolled down Mabel's plump cheeks, and, fettered by her lemon-colored gloves, she had to let them roll, until Bettie wiped them away. And that set them all off again. In the midst of it Marjory's sharp elbow inadvertently struck the push-bell and Simmons, the imposing, much-dreaded butler, opened the door. Instantly the giggling ceased. Four exceedingly solemn little girls filed into the big hall. Bettie groped nervously for her pocket, found it and endeavored to extract the cards. But the large, stiff envelope stuck and, for a long, embarrassing moment, Bettie fumbled in vain; while the butler, his chin "very high and scornful" as Marjory said afterwards, waited.

At last the cards were out. Diffident Bettie dropped them, envelope and all, on the extended plate; but Jean deftly seized the envelope and shook out the cards. Next followed a most unhappy moment. Simmons was evidently expecting them to do something, they hadn't the remotest idea what.

Then, to their great relief, there was a sudden "swish" of silken skirts, a flash of scarlet and lively Henrietta, who had slid down the broad banister, was greeting them warmly.

"Grandmother's out," said she. "Come up to my room and have a real visit before she gets back. Simmons, just toddle down to the lower regions for some fruit and anything else you can find; send them up to my room."

Something very like a smile flitted across Simmons's wooden countenance. Perhaps it amused him to be ordered to "toddle."

"Do you like my new gown?" queried Henrietta, leading the way upstairs and flirting her accordion-pleated skirts in graceful fashion. "It's my dinner dress. I have to dress for dinner every night—such a fuss for just two of us. Come in here—this is my sitting-room."

"How very odd," said Jean, finding her voice at last.

"Isn't it?" laughed Henrietta, shaking her brown curls. She wore them tied back with two enormous black bows. "Grandmother's a mixture of everything, you know—French, English, New York Dutch—and her furniture shows it. Lots of it came from Europe and Father picked up things in India and China—such a jolly dad as he is. That's why this place is such a jumble."

"I like it," declared Jean. "It looks interesting—as if there were lovely stories in it."

"There are," said Henrietta, drawing aside a heavy, silken curtain, "and I keep making new ones to fit. This is my bedroom, this next one is my dressing-room and this is my bath."

"Ugh!" shuddered Mabel, "do you take shower baths?"

"Every morning," laughed Henrietta.

"What a lovely dressing table!" exclaimed Bettie, peering into the oval mirror and smiling into her own dark eyes. "I never saw such pretty things, even in a catalogue."

"It's French," said Henrietta, "but all those little jeweled boxes came from Calcutta—Father just loves to buy little boxes with inlaid tops. Oh, here's Greta, with things to eat." Henrietta hastily swept her belongings from a dainty little table and the smiling maid deposited the heavy tray.

"Tangerines, nuts, figs and sponge cake," chattered Henrietta. "That's very nice, Greta. Help yourselves to chairs, girls. Here's a tabouret for you, little Marjory. Catch, Jean," and the merry little hostess tossed a golden tangerine to Jean. "Oh, wait," she added. "You mustn't take off your gloves or get them soiled, because Grandmother always gets in about this time, and you know you must be very formal with Grandmother. I'll peel them for you. Now draw up closer. You mustn't spot your gloves, so I'll feed you. First, a bit of sponge cake all around. Now an almond. Now the orange. Oh, I'm forgetting myself! Now more sponge cake."

"This is fine," said Bettie. "I'm always hungry after school."

"So am I," said Jean.

"If I'd s'posed," said Mabel, "that formal calls were like this, I'd have started sooner."

"Are you a different person every time anybody sees you?" asked Bettie, curiously.

"Why?" queried Henrietta.

"Because," explained Bettie, "you seem so very changeable. You're a mischief in school, yesterday you seemed almost sad and to-day you're so polite."

"Oh, thank you," said Henrietta, rising to sweep a deep and very much exaggerated courtesy. "Nobody ever before said that I was polite."

"Miss Henrietta," said Greta, tapping at the door, "the carriage has just turned the corner."

"Follow me," said Henrietta, with an instant change of tone, as she hurriedly brushed the crumbs from her lap and pulled Mabel's jacket into place. "Follow me and don't make a sound. It's time to be formal."