Poor Dick, at his wit’s end, tried vainly to allay the storm. "See here, Peggy. You don’t need to have ’em if you don’t want ’em." That was when her sobs were most violent. Then with sudden indignation: "I’d like to know what you’re laughing at anyway, Peg Raymond. _I_ don’t see anything funny." The laughter had the better of the tears at last and Peggy wiped her eyes, took a long breath, and climbed unsteadily to her feet. "Dick." "What?" "The next time you have any bad news to tell, don’t try to break it gently. Just blurt it out, no matter what happens. I think that’s safer, on the whole." Peggy moved languidly to the sink, where she removed the encircling towel and proceeded to bathe her eyes. "Dick." "What d’ye want?" The conscience-stricken Dick was on his feet instantly, ready to fly in any direction at a word. "You needn’t tell the boys not to come. If one of the girls will come over and help me, I guess we can fix up some sort of supper. You run and ask Elaine." But when Dick appeared fifteen minutes later he was accompanied by Priscilla instead of Peggy’s next-door neighbor. "Elaine couldn’t come," explained Dick. "She’s sick, too. Her mother said she couldn’t lift her head from the pillow." It was Priscilla’s first intimation that she had been second choice, and, to a girl of her temperament, the news was disquieting. "I’m sorry you couldn’t have the one you wanted, Peggy," she said, with dangerous sweetness. "But I’ll do my best to take her place." Then catching sight of poor Peggy’s swollen eyes and drooping figure, she had the grace to be ashamed of herself. It was a very good supper, though Peggy, sitting pale and heavy-eyed, at the end of the table, ate little of it. Strawberry preserves, and some of Sally’s fruit cookies, had helped out so nicely that it had not been necessary to do much cooking, and in Dick’s present state of penitence he would have eaten pine shavings and sworn that they were delicious. As he watched Skits, gorging himself with preserves, Dick suddenly realized that the supper invitation was not at all in accordance with Skits’ deserts. "I’d ought to have punched his head when he acted as if he didn’t believe about Peggy’s cooking," thought Dick, scowling darkly at his unconscious guest. "Just as though everybody along the Terrace didn’t know that she’s got ’em all skinned." Unconscious of the regrets disturbing their host’s peace of mind, Skits and Tom made out an excellent meal, and withdrew to the next room to examine some new stamps Dick had recently added to his collection. Priscilla, who had quite recovered from her little pique, pushed Peggy into the rocking-chair, when she attempted to assist with the work. "You sit still," she scolded. "Don’t you dare move! I’ll be through the dishes in no time."