“The joke certainly isn’t on us! I’ve decided to turn down the nomination for prosecutor. As things are going I’d be a fool to sacrifice my private practice for a public job. The general counsel of the Transcontinental’s feeling us out as to whether we’ll take the local attorneyship of that rascally corporation. Canby Taylor’s had it for twenty years, and it would be some triumph to add it to our string of scalps.” The invitation list, rigidly revised and cut to one hundred, was finally acceptable to all the members of the family, and Helen and John had begun to address the envelopes when this task was interrupted by the delivery of a telegram. “It’s for you, mother,” said Helen, taking the envelope from the capped and aproned housemaid who had been installed in the household against the coming of the Campbells. Mrs. Ward adjusted her glasses and settled herself to read with the resigned air of one inured to the idea that telegrams are solely a medium for communicating bad news. “What is it, mother? Somebody dead?” asked John without looking up from the envelope he was addressing to The Hon. and Mrs. Addison Swiggert. “Worse!” murmured Mrs. Ward, staring vacantly. “Nothing can be worse!” ejaculated Helen, catching the bit of paper as it fell fluttering to the floor. “The Campbells are not coming!” she gasped. “Not coming!” faltered Robert Fleming Ward, throwing down a brief he was studying. “Read it, for heaven’s sake!” commanded John. Helen, with difficulty bringing her eyes to meet the dark tidings, began to read: So sorry we are obliged to change our plans and cannot pay you the visit to which we had looked forward with so much pleasure---- “It’s horrible! It’s positively tragic,” sobbed Mrs. Ward, groping for her handkerchief. “Hurry on, Helen!” ordered John. “There’s a lot more of it.” Walter feels that he ought to attend a conference of Southern bankers unexpectedly called for February eighteen at Baltimore, and we are obliged to defer the California trip indefinitely. However, we are going down in the yacht and Walter has happily solved the whole problem by insisting that you all come to New York and make the cruise with us. “Glory! glory hallelujah!” John shouted. The yacht is big enough to be comfortable for even a poor sailor like me, so we can have a cosy time together. We want your husband, son and daughter to come of course, and you will be our guests throughout the journey. The Manager of the Transcontinental will put his private car at your disposal. Do wire at once that you will come. With much love. RUTH CAMPBELL. “Can you beat it! _Can_ you beat it!” cried John. “After all this talk--and the publicity and everything----” his mother began plaintively. “And all these people who’ve brought us business in the hope of meeting the Campbells and getting favors from him!” his father added hopelessly.