At that stage of its rise from a desert to a paradise Euchretown was belied by its name. A sombreness hovered over the thought of the place; the method of life was Puritanic. Euchre? One would have thought there was never a deck in the town. “I don’t want to be un-Christian,” snapped the wife of Reverend Hummel; “but I wish that Mrs. Stoker had never stuck her foot in this town.” Mrs. Hummel was out of place linked to a preacher. Fairly well had she clothed her mind in the prevalent Puritanic mood; but in her heart she was different. As for social leaders, she was the one, and she knew it. “Why, Jennie,” complained the Reverend Hummel, a pale gentleman with eyes that ever bespoke a receptive surprise at his debts; “your words ring evil. And then the term you employed--stuck. How, pray, could Mrs. Stoker stick her foot?” At this moment the maid (employed despite the mortgaged condition of Hummel’s real estate) ushered in Mrs. Banker Wheelock. “And _have_ you heard the news about Mrs. Stoker!” cried Mrs. Wheelock, as Mr. Hummel, wandering away, hummed “Throw Out the Life Line” in a fumbling voice. “Oh, haven’t you got an invitation?” “What is it?” said Mrs. Hummel, darkly. “A euchre-party! Everybody!” Mrs. Hummel’s arms dropped limp. “But, of course,” she said, “nobody will go.” “They’re all wild about it!” ejaculated Mrs. Wheelock; “Mrs. Stoker is said to have struck the psychological moment.” Mrs. Hummel started up. “There hasn’t been a card-party for years!” cried she; “where’ll she get her decks? Does she carry around a trunk full? Or will she clean out the saloons? But----” and the tears leaped up to her lashes, “I wouldn’t be un-Christian about it.” Mrs. Wheelock arose and laid her hands on Mrs. Hummel’s arm. “Of course, dear, you know the only reason you wouldn’t be invited is that you’re the preacher’s wife,” soothed she; and then, with a puzzled air: “That _must_ be the reason.” Now the maid brought in an envelope. It was Mr. and Mrs. Hummel’s invitation to Mrs. Stoker’s euchre-party. The eye of Jennie met that of Mrs. Wheelock, as a partial relief made its way into the breast of the preacher’s wife. “Did you ever hear of such impudence?” she breathed. * * * * * Mrs. Stoker had a new green cottage with nine Corinthian pillars (capitals enormously ornate) along her front porch. Within, electric lights, white-pine woodwork, brilliant floral tributes of Axminster carpets, and bird’s-eye maple furniture combined to produce an effect luxurious, irrefutable. “Oh, yes,” natty Stoker was saying to the men, “I gave him three thousand for his ten acres. Wheelock, run over to the city with me to-morrow and look at the Pasadena Villa Tract. I’ve a mind to pick up a bunch of those lots.”