The morning of the eventful day arrived. It had been agreed that we were to marshal our forces at ten o'clock in the attic, and all help in the adjustment of curtains, seats, lights, etc. It was a time of intense fascination. We girls talked and laughed gayly, enjoying everything; and I can hear now the sound of the hammer as Mr. Ludlow nailed up this and that; the creaking of the boards as we ran across them before the druggeting was tacked down; the voices of one and another asking questions, offering advice, expostulating, criticising: it was a most enjoyable morning. We had a luncheon sent up to us in the attic, and I think that was the best of all; it was like a picnic, except that there were hot dishes, and a servant to run up and down. There was to be a dance after the play, and a supper; but that luncheon seemed to me a far more delightful banquet than the one to be spread that evening in the beautiful dining-room down stairs. Yet in my mind I kept anticipating the glories of the evening, the dress I was to wear, my speeches, the whole effect, finally the dance, with a real band of musicians, and the supper, at which we young people were to have a table all to ourselves. By three o'clock our luncheon was over, and Kate, who was arranging the stage for the first scene, found she needed a book which was in the parlor. She turned to me. "Come, Ruth," she said, a little sharply, "you are doing nothing. Will you run down and get me that big book on the parlor table?" I assented willingly enough, and ran down the four flights of stairs, scarcely thinking what I was doing, until I reached the parlor. I was just going into the room, my hand was on the handle of the door, when I saw through the glass of the front door the postman's figure outside. Even now I can see the street with its covering of snow, the wide heavy doorway, the dim hall with the winding staircase at the back, and I can picture in fancy my own girlish figure standing there, not knowing that one of the most important moments of my life had come. The postman dropped a big letter into the box. I went forward, and taking it up, was pleased to find on it papa's handwriting addressed to me. No one was about the hall, the parlor into which I hurried was equally desolate, and I sat down to read my letter before going up with the book Kate wanted. [Illustration: RUTH READING HER LETTER.--DRAWN BY E. A. ABBEY.] I opened my letter with feverish haste, but the first glance dashed my good spirits. I read the few lines with a sinking heart, and I can almost see them now hurriedly traced across a bit of paper: