“Never mind,” purred nice little Ernie, immediately forgetful of any rancour she herself may have been cherishing. “Some day you’ll surprise them all, Hazard. They don’t appreciate you yet, dear,—but we know, don’t we, Elizabeth? Just let ’em wait a bit, and they’ll see!” Thursday, December 18. Tuesday I received an invitation from Aunt Adelaide to dine with them yesterday evening. I was to bring my mandolin, and after dinner Meta and I were to play from _Iolanthe_. The fairy music is very pretty on the mandolin. There were to be a number of guests: an Englishman and his wife, a railroad president, and several others. Aunt Adelaide extends me one or two such informal invitations each winter. I expect she considers it her duty,—besides which it lends support to Meta, and two mandolins are better than one. Naturally, the first question was as to clothes. Aunt Adelaide sees to it that two or three of Meta’s last season’s dresses are sent to me spring and fall. They are always _chic_, always pretty, and as we are very nearly of a size, they require little alteration. Yet, somehow, I hate to wear them,—especially in their native habitat, where I am perpetually haunted by the discomforting suggestion that they must be fatally familiar to all. However, it is expected; and Ernie declares that I ought to be grateful, since I am thus “provided with a wardrobe far above my station.” She is too young to understand that that is just what I do not like. Last evening I wore a graceful little white surah frilled frock, garnished with artificial forget-me-nots. The idea! for a girl who expects to start in on the family-wash come Monday. Uncle George’s house, as I have remarked before, is very imposing. There is a magnificent display of plate-glass windows, a flight of broad stone steps, and a really oppressive vestibule. I was admitted by William, the coloured man, who took my instrument, and told me that “Miss Meta was above stairs; would I please go right up?” Such a charming room as Meta has,—all rose and mossy green, with soft rugs, a desk, a bookcase, her favourite casts and photographs! Everything individual and personal,—which seems to me the greatest treat of all. “Come in!” she answered to my knock, and turned half round before the cheval-glass, a pout upon her pretty face. “Oh, Meta!” I cried, “how charming!” For the dress of which she was evidently trying the effect before the mirror was truly lovely,—a Nile green rajah silk, with lace under-sleeves and a touch of amber fluff at the throat. “Do you think so?” returned Meta, “You haven’t really seen it yet. Come and look how this shoulder pulls. Now wouldn’t that jar you!” “There isn’t much amiss,” I answered. “The underseam wants to be let out a little, that’s all.”