"O Pris, Pris, I'm really going! Here's the invitation--rough

paper--Chapel--spreads--Lyceum Hall--everything splendid; and Jack to

take care of me!"

As Kitty burst into the room and performed a rapturous _pas seul_,

waving the cards over her head, sister Priscilla looked up from her

work with a smile of satisfaction on her quiet face.

"Who invites you, dear?"

"Why, Jack, of course,--dear old cousin Jack. Nobody else ever thinks

of me, or cares whether I have a bit of pleasure now and then. Isn't

he kind? Mayn't I go? and, O Pris, what _shall_ I wear?"

Kitty paused suddenly, as if the last all-important question had a

solemnizing effect upon both mind and body.

"Why, your white muslin, silk sacque, and new hat, of course," began

Pris with an air of surprise. But Kitty broke in impetuously,--

"I'll never wear that old muslin again; it's full of darns, up to my

knees, and all out of fashion. So is my sacque; and as for my hat,

though it does well enough here, it would be absurd for Class Day."

"You don't expect an entirely new suit for this occasion,--do you?"

asked Pris, anxiously.

"Yes, I do, and I'll tell you how I mean to get it. I've planned

everything; for, though I hardly dreamed of going, I amused myself by

thinking how I could manage if I _did_ get invited."

"Let us hear." And Pris took up her work with an air of resignation.

"First, my dress," began Kitty, perching herself on the arm of the

sofa, and entering into the subject with enthusiasm. "I've got the ten

dollars grandpa sent me, and with eight of it I'm going to buy

Lizzie King's organdie muslin. She got it in Paris; but her aunt

providentially--no, unfortunately--died; so she can't wear it, and

wants to get rid of it. She is bigger than I am, you know; so there is

enough for a little mantle or sacque, for it isn't made up. The skirt

is cut off and gored, with a splendid train--"