Mary and Holland listened in flattering silence.  They had great respect for their thirteen-year old sister, who had been across seas and visited old chateaux where kings and queens once lived.  She was the only child in Plainsville who could boast the distinction of having been abroad, and there was a glamour about it that enchanted them.  They were never tired of hearing of her adventures.

“It’s horrid to be poor,” she said again, clapping the lid on the kettle.  “I hate to live in a little crowded-up house, and spoil my hands with dust and dish-water, and do the same things year in and year out.”

Joyce stopped suddenly, wishing that she could unsay that last speech, for the little mother had come into the kitchen in time to hear it.  There was a pained expression on her face.

“I am afraid my bird of passage will never be satisfied with the little home nest again,” she said, sadly.

“Oh, mother, I didn’t mean it as bad as it sounds; truly, I didn’t,” cried Joyce.  “You know that usually I am as contented as a cricket; but I don’t know what is the matter with me to-day.  It must be the weather.”

Just then there was a stamping on the porch outside, and the violent flapping of an umbrella to rid it of the raindrops clinging to it.

“Jack!” shouted Mary, rushing to the door, with Holland and the baby tagging at her heels.  “A letter for Joyce!” they called in chorus the next instant, all straggling back after the oldest brother as he bore it triumphantly into the kitchen.

“From Lloydsboro Valley,” announced Joyce, and Mrs. Ware’s face lighted up with one of her rare smiles.

“Ah, I knew it was coming,” she said, “and I am sure it will prove an antidote for your blues.  I had a letter from the same place last week, and I’ve been in the secret ever since.”

“What secret?” demanded Mary, her eyes round with curiosity, and Jack echoed the question.

“That Joyce was to be invited to a house party in June, back in ’My old Kentucky home.’  The invitation is from one of my old school friends.  There were three of us,” she went on, in answer to the look of eager interest in Mary’s eyes.  “Three girls who grew up together:  Joyce Allen (your sister is named for her), Elizabeth Lloyd, and myself.  And now our little daughters are to meet in the same dear old valley where we played together and grew up together and learned to love each other like sisters.  I hope they will become as dear friends as we were.”

Joyce looked up from her letter, her face aglow with joyful surprise.  “Oh, mother!” she cried, “do you really mean it?  Is it possible that I am to go?  How can you afford it?”

Mrs. Ware motioned toward the envelope lying at Joyce’s feet.

“Look again,” she said, “and you will find that Mr. Sherman has sent a pass.  As for the clothes, well, your ‘witch with a wand’ has come to the rescue again.”