"If that _should_ be Dennison's letter," mused Mr. Clayton as he locked up the house; "if that should be--confound it, and I know it is! I 'd swear it! It serves me right, too, I suppose, for telling him to write me at the house instead of at the office. Confound that little beast of a dog!" In the south chamber Ethel, sending long, even strokes over the brown satin of her hair, eyed her image in the glass with a plaintive pout. "Now, if that letter _should_ be an invitation from Fred!" she said aloud. "And when I 'd so much rather go on that ride with him! Oh, dear! Where can Rover have put it?" Across the hall James Clayton paced the room from end to end. "Great Scott! What if it _were_ May's letter, after all?" he groaned. "What a fool I was to leave it that if I did n't hear by Thursday night I'd understand 'twas 'no'! And now she may have written and be expecting me to-morrow, Wednesday,--_to-night_, even, and I not know it--tied hand and foot! Oh, hang that dog!" Tuesday morning the family awoke and met at the breakfast table. The air was electric with unrest, and the food almost untouched. It was Mrs. Clayton who broke the long silence that followed the morning's greetings. "I--I don't think I 'll do much to get ready for the Bixbys," she began; "I 'm so sure that letter was from them." "You mean that, Julia?" demanded her husband, brightening. "Are you really positive?" "Yes, really positive. They said all the time that they did n't think they could come, and that without doubt I should get a letter saying so." "Then of course 'twas it," asserted Ethel, her face suddenly clearing. "Of course," echoed her brother with a promptitude that hinted at more than a willingness to be convinced that the letter was the Bixbys' and none other. It was about ten minutes past five that afternoon when the four Bixbys came. "There, we did get here!" they chorused gleefully. "Yes, yes, I see, I see," murmured Mrs. Clayton, and signaled to Ethel to hurry into the kitchen and give the alarm to the cook. "Then you--you did n't write?" "Write? Why, no, of course not! We were n't to, you know, if we could come." "Yes--er--I mean no," stammered Mrs. Clayton, trying to calculate just how long it would take the maid to put three rooms in order. At half-past six the family, with their guests, sat down to a dinner that showed unmistakable signs of having been started as a simple one for six, and finished as a would-be elaborate one for ten. To the faces of Mr. Clayton, Ethel, and James the cloud of the morning had returned. Mrs. Clayton, confident that the missing letter contained nothing worse for her than its absence had already brought her, looked comparatively serene. After dinner, as by common consent, Mr. Clayton and his elder son and daughter met in a secluded comer of the library. "Hang it all, dad, _now_ whose letter do you suppose that was?" began James aggressively.