“Now, you don’t say I’ve got an invite,” said she, leaving the darning-needle in the stocking-heel which she was mending, and wiping her steel-bowed spectacles. “Come, ’Leny, you read it, that’s a good girl.” ’Lena complied, and taking the note from her cousin’s hand, read that Mrs. Graham would be at home Thursday evening, etc. “But where’s the invite? That don’t say anything about _me_!” said Mrs. Nichols, beginning to fear that it was a humbug after all. As well as they could, ’Lena and John Jr. explained it to her, and then, fully convinced that she was really invited, Mrs. Nichols began to wonder what she should wear, and how she should go, asking John “if he couldn’t tackle up and carry her in the shay,” as she called the single buggy. “Certainly,” answered John Jr. willing to do anything for the sake of the fun which he knew would ensue from his grandmother’s attendance. ’Lena thought otherwise, for much as she desired to gratify her grandmother, she would not for the world expose her to the ridicule which her appearance at a fashionable party would call forth. Glancing reprovingly at her cousin, she said, “I wouldn’t think of going, grandma, for you are lame and old, and there’ll be so many people there, all strangers, too, that you won’t enjoy it at all. Besides that, we’ll have a nice time at home together—-I’ll read to you all the evening.” “_We_,” repeated John Jr. “Pray, are you not going?” “Not without an invitation,” said ’Lena smilingly. “True, true,” returned her cousin. “It’s downstairs, I dare say. I only stopped to look at this. I’ll go and get yours now.” Suiting the action to the word, he descended to his mother’s room, asking for “’Lena’s card.” “’Lena’s card! What do you mean?” said Mrs. Livingstone, looking up from the book she was reading, while Carrie for a moment suspended her needle-work. “’Lena’s invitation; you know well enough what I mean,” returned John Jr., tumbling over the notes which lay upon the table, and failing to find the one for which he was seeking. “You’ll have to ask Mrs. Graham for it, I presume, as it’s not here,” was Mrs. Livingstone’s quiet answer. “Thunder!” roared John Jr., “’Lena not invited! That’s a smart caper. But there’s some mistake about it, I know. Who brought them?” “Nero brought them,” said Carrie, “and I think it is strange that grandmother should be invited and ’Lena left out. But I suppose Mrs. Graham has her reasons. She don’t seem to fancy ’Lena much.” “Mrs. Graham go to grass,” muttered John Jr., leaving the room and slamming the door after him with great violence. ’Twas a pity he did not look in one of the drawers of his mother’s work-box, for there, safe and sound, lay the missing note! But he did not think of that. He only knew that ’Lena was slighted, and for the next two hours he raved and fretted, sometimes declaring he would not go, and again wishing Mrs. Graham in a temperature but little suited to her round, fat proportions.