Adam, slavering and slobbering, was waiting for her as usual by the front gate.  His deep brown eyes always showed phosphorescent glimmers of excitement when Lydia came.  He lunged up against her now with howls of delight and she knelt in the snow, as she always did, and hugged him.  Then he seized her book strap and lugged her Algebra and English Composition up to the house.

Lizzie was as excited as Lydia when she heard of the invitation.

“There’s that gray serge of your mother’s,” she said.  “It’s awful faded.  And there’s a piece of a light blue serge waist she had, Lydia, let’s get ’em dyed red.  Smitzky’s will do it in a couple of days for us.  They did lots of work for me in bygone days and I’ll pay for it out of the grocery money.”

“Do you think we can fix it so it won’t look made over?” asked Lydia, torn between hope and doubt.

“Of course we can.  You choose your pattern tomorrow and I’ll get in to town in the morning with the goods, rheumatiz or no rheumatiz.”

Amos heard of the invitation with real pleasure.  Nor did the clothes problem trouble him.  “Pshaw, wear that green Sunday dress of yours.  You always look nice, Lydia; whatever you wear.  And I’ll take you up there and call for you.  If all the boys in school was running after you, I wouldn’t let one of ’em beau you round before you was eighteen.  So put that kind of a bee out of your bonnet for good and all.”

Lydia lived the next two weeks in the clouds.  The new-old dress was finished the day before the reception.  There had been minutes of despair in creating this festive garment.  The dyeing process had developed unsuspected moth holes.  The blue and the gray serge did not dye exactly the same shade, nor were they of quite the same texture.  However, by twisting and turning and adding a yoke of black silk, which had for years been Lizzie’s Sunday neck scarf, a result was produced that completely satisfied the little dressmaker and old Lizzie.

Miss Towne was the only daughter of one of the old New England families of Lake City.  Teaching was an avocation with her and not a bread and butter necessity.  She lived in one of the fine old stone houses that crowned the lake shore near the college.  At eight o’clock on a Saturday evening, Amos left Lydia at the front door of the house, and in a few minutes Lydia was taking off her hat and coat in the midst of a chattering group of girls.  The pink organdy was there as well as the red silk,—­so were blue organdies and white, as well as dainty slippers.

After a general “Hello,” Lydia slipped downstairs to find her hostess.  Miss Towne, the grouchy, the strict and the stern Miss Towne, moving among her guests, saw the thin little figure hesitating in the doorway, saw the cobbled red dress, with skirt that was too short and sleeves that were too long and neck that was too tight, saw the carefully blacked school shoes, saw the intelligent high bred head nobly set on straight shoulders and the wonderful dusty gold of the curly hair, and the puzzled, bashful blue eyes.