On the morning before the matinee to which Mrs. Stratford had referred, or to be more exact, at twelve o'clock on the very day of the great Paderewski recital, Martine ran out to the letter-box to post two or three notes. Angelina could have taken them for her, or she might better have followed the custom of the house, which was to give them to the hall-boy. But Martine had not been out that morning, as illness among her drawing pupils had occasioned a postponement of the usual Saturday lesson. She had therefore seized on the letters as an excuse for getting a breath of the fresh spring air that came in through the half-open windows, tantalizing her and urging her to leave the house. "I half wish I were not going to the recital," she said to herself, "on a mild sunny day like this I begrudge the hours I must spend in a crowded hall, and though I won't have to pretend to be in a seventh heaven over the music, yet it will weary me to have to show a proper degree of appreciation in the presence of my guests." So ran the course of Martine's thoughts as she approached the letter-box. After a turn or two in the mall under the trees, she walked back slowly toward the house. "After all," she mused, "mamma was probably right. I have been extravagant. The tickets have really cost a pretty sum, counting premiums and all. For what is the good in inviting guests, unless one has the very best seats?" This thought of the seats inclined Martine to look again at her tickets, and as soon as she reached her room she went to her desk to look at them. "Mamma," she called, "you haven't by any chance seen a narrow envelope with my Paderewski tickets?" "No, my dear," replied her mother, "surely you haven't lost them?" "Oh, no, I remember now, I put them in a larger envelope; they were lying here with my letters." A moment later Martine stood before her mother with dismay written on her face. "What do you suppose I have done? it's too foolish and too annoying for anything. I can't find the envelope with the tickets and I really believe that I dropped it into the letter-box." "Oh, Martine, I thought you'd outgrown those careless habits!" "I thought so too, but there's no use in crying about spilled milk; I will try to do what I can to get the tickets from the postman." "There again you talk like a baby," said Mrs. Stratford. "Surely you must know that no postman can give you anything from a letter-box simply because you ask for it." "Well, I can try, that is if there's time." "But it's half-past twelve now, and if you are to meet Priscilla at half-past one, you will have all you can do to dress and keep your appointment." "But, mamma, what _can_ I do without tickets? It will be terrible if we can't get in, and how everyone will laugh at me. And they were such good seats in the house." "I am sorry for you, my child, but I can say little to help you."