They were written with gold ink on pink paper. A water-colored butterfly was poised in midair somewhere on each one, and at the left lower end were the mysterious letters "R.S.V.P." The old Professor who lived in the room next the Frey kitchen got one, and Miss Penny, who occupied the room beyond. So did Mademoiselle Guyosa, who made paper flowers, and the mysterious little woman of the last, worst room in the house--a tiny figure whose face none of her neighbors had ever seen, but who had given her name to the baker and milkman as "Mamzelle St. John." And there were others. Madame Coraline, the fortune-teller, who rented the hall room on the second floor, was perhaps more surprised at her invitation than any of the rest. No one ever asked her anywhere. Even the veiled ladies who sometimes visited her darkened chamber always tiptoed up the steps as if they were half ashamed of going there. The twins had a time getting her to come to the door to receive the invitation, and after vainly rapping several times, they had finally brought a parasol and hammered upon the horseshoe tacked upon the door, until at last it opened just about an inch. And then she was invited. But, indeed, it is time to be telling how the party originated. It had been the habit of the Frey children, since they could remember, to save up spare coins all the year for a special fund which they called "Christmas money." The old fashion of spending these small amounts in presents for one another had long ago given place to the better one--more in the Christmas spirit--of using it to brighten the day for some one less blessed than themselves. It is true that on the Christmas before the one of this story they had broken the rule, or only strained it, perhaps, to buy a little stove for their mother's room. But a rule that would not stretch enough to take in such a home need would be a poor one indeed. This year they had had numerous schemes, but somehow none had seemed to appeal to the stockholders in the Christmas firm, and so they had finally called a meeting on the subject. It was at this meeting that Meg, fourteen years old, having taken the floor, said: "Well, it seems to _me_ that the _worst_ kind of a Christmas must be a lonely one. Just think how nearly all the roomers in this house spent last Christmas--most of 'em sittin' by their lone selves in their rooms, and some of 'em just eatin' every-day things! The Professor hadn't a thing but Bologna-sausage and crackers. _I know--'cause I peeped._ An' now, whatever you all are goin' to do with _your_ money, _mine's_ goin' right into this house, to the roomers--_some way_." "If we knew what we could do, Meg?" said Ethel. "If we knew what we could do or _how we could do it_," interrupted Conrad, "why, I'd give my eighty-five cents in a minute. I'd give it to the old Professor to have his curls cut." Conrad was a true-hearted fellow, but he was full of mischief.