“Hello, Lyd!” he cried.  “Are you going to go to the Junior Prom. with me, after all?”

“Kent, I can’t go.  I might be strong enough for one or two dances by that time, but I can’t get my clothes done.”

“Pshaw, isn’t that hard luck!” Kent’s voice was soft with sympathy.  “Never mind, old lady!  I’m so darned glad to have you getting well so fast, that the Prom. doesn’t matter.  Say, Lyd, Margery’s come out fine, since you’ve been sick!”

“I know it,” said Lydia.  “Just think of Margery carrying Dad’s meals in a basket, and helping Lizzie with the dishes.  And I know she hates it worse than poison.  She’s out in the kitchen now, making fudge.”

Kent brightened, perceptibly.  “Is she?  Er—­Lydia, don’t you think she’d go to the Prom. with me?  Seems to me she’s cut out society as long as she needs to.”

Lydia buried her nose in a bunch of violets that Professor Willis had sent her.  “I think she ought to go if she wants to,” she said.

“Guess I’ll ask her now,” cried Kent, disappearing kitchenward.

Lydia lay watching snowflakes sift softly past the window.  It was not long before Margery and Kent appeared.

“She’s going!” cried Kent.

Margery’s beautiful eyes were glowing.  “Yes, I’m going, Lyd!  And if nobody else will dance with me, Kent will take all the dances.”

Old Lizzie followed in.  She looked sharply at Lydia, then said, “You folks come out in the dining-room and let Lydia have a little nap.”

“No, I guess I’ll go home,” Margery answered, “Mother’s not very well to-day.”

“I’ll take you along in my chug-chug.”  Kent crossed over to the couch and took Lydia’s hand, while Margery went for her wraps.  “Good-by, dear,” he whispered, “get well fast for me.”

Lydia smiled at him over the bunch of violets.

Billy was the next caller.  “I left Dad and Amos saving the Nation through Free Trade,” he said.  “Gee, Lydia, but you do look better!  You don’t suppose you could possibly go to the Prom., just for one or two dances, do you?”

Lydia shook her head.  “No clothes,” she said, briefly.  “Ask some other girl.”

“There isn’t any other girl,” replied Billy.  “If I can’t go with you, I’ll be hanged if I go at all!  Lydia, I don’t see why a sensible girl like you lays such stress on clothes.  Honestly, it’s not like you.  Come on, be a sport and go in your usual dress.”

Lydia looked at Billy’s steady gray eyes, and a faint glow of comfort began to surround her heart.  Sometimes she felt as if Billy understood her almost as well as John Levine did.

“Now, look here,” he said, argumentatively, “you and I had better talk this clothes question out, once and for all.”

Lydia giggled.  “Billy, you don’t know women!  It can’t be talked out!”

“I know you,” replied the young man, stretching out his long legs to the base-burner, and looking at Lydia, “and I want you to stop worrying about your duds.  I want you to let me lend you the money to get a complete party outfit with.”