There had been a great sacrifice of fine old furniture when the big house on Main Street had to be exchanged for the little one in Church Lane, and it was no wonder Miss Betty sighed at the thought.  None the less she had accepted courageously the reverses which at twenty brought her gay girlhood to an end, and for fifteen years was a cheerful, devoted nurse to her invalid father.  Since his death she lived alone with only Sophy, her old mammy, to cook and care for her.

When it became known that Miss Betty had invited certain of her young friends to tea to meet Rosalind Whittredge, a wave of excitement swept over Friendship.

All the children of the town had heard stories of Miss Betty’s beauty and belleship, but those Washington winters belonged to twenty years ago and had no connection with her present popularity.  Sophy’s skill as a cook no doubt had something to do with the fame of her mistress’s tea parties, but besides this Miss Betty knew how to make her guests, whether young or old, have a good time.

When asked if she was fend of children, she was sure to reply, “Some children.  I don’t like disagreeable children any better than I do disagreeable grown persons.”  And for this reason, perhaps, it had come to be esteemed something of an honor to be asked to her house.

Miss Betty had at first felt a prejudice against Patterson Whittredge’s daughter, deciding in her own mind that she was probably a spoiled little thing; but the sight of Rosalind taking tea with Morgan, and more than this, the frank gaze of those disarming gray eyes, had touched her kindly heart.  She knew as well as anybody that it must be lonely in the Whittredge house; and so she had thought of the tea party.

The interest felt in Patterson Whittredge’s daughter was very general.  Patterson belonged to those old times when peace had reigned in Friendship.  He had been a favorite in the village, and to many it seemed only the other day that he had gone away.  It was incredible that this tall girl seen walking by Mrs. Whittredge’s side could be his daughter.  There were those like Mrs. Graham’s pupils, who were inclined to invest her with a halo of romance; others criticised her as not at all the Whittredge style, not what one had a right to expect in Mrs. Whittredge’s granddaughter.  Some pitied Mrs. Whittredge for the responsibility thrust upon her, others pitied Rosalind, and still more, envied her.

In view of all the discussion, it was not possible to regard an invitation to meet her as quite an everyday matter.

“I do wish you had not soiled your embroidered muslin, Belle.  You will have to wear your summer silk,” said Mrs. Parton, addressing her daughter, who sat on the dining-room floor entertaining a Maltese kitten with a string and spool.

“I forgot to tell you, mother, Jack dropped some wax candle on it last Sunday night, when we were looking for a penny in the grass,” Belle replied, lifting her merry black eyes for a moment.  “Anyway, it isn’t a dress-up party—­only to supper.”