“Darn it,” the boy mused, “I don’t see why.  He’s not a teetotaler.”  “Well, I know,” Martie conceded.  “But that’s different, of course!  No—­we can’t have punch.  I don’t know how to make it, anyway—­” She was hardly following her own words.  Under them lay the wonderful consciousness that Rodney Parker was here at the house, sitting on the porch steps on a warm November morning, as much at home as Leonard himself.  The sun was looking down into the dark garden, damp paths were drying in sudden warmth after a rain.

In such an hour and such a mood, Martie felt absolutely confident that the dance would be a great success.  More; it seemed to her in the heartening morning sunlight that it would be the first of many such innocent festivities, and that before it was over—­before it was over, she and Rodney might have something wonderful to tell the girls and boys of Monroe.

But in the long winter afternoons her confidence waned a little, and at night, dreaming over her cards, she began to have serious misgivings.  Then the old house seemed cold and inhospitable and the burden of carrying a social affair to success fell like a dreadful weight on the girl’s soul.  Mama, Lydia, and Sally would cooperate to the best of their power, of course; Pa and Len might be expected to make themselves as annoying as possible.

Supper, decorations, even the question of gowns paled before the task of making a list of guests.  Sally and Martie early realized that they must inevitably hurt the feelings and disappoint the trust of more than one old friend.  Mrs. Monroe and Lydia grew absolutely sick over the necessity.

“Ma, this is just for the younger set,” Martie argued.  “And if people like Miss Fanny and the Johnsons expect to come to it, why, it’s ridiculous, that’s all!”

“I know, dear, but it’s the first party we have given in years” her mother said plaintively, “and one hates to—­”

“What I’ve done” said Martie in a worried tone, “is write down all the possible boys in Monroe, even counting Len and Billy Frost, and Rod, and Alvah Brigham.  Then I wrote down all the girls I’d like to ask if I could, and there were about fourteen too many.  So now I’m scratching off all the girls I can—­”

“I do think you ought to ask Grace Hawkes!” Lydia said firmly and reproachfully.

“Well, I can’t!” Martie answered quickly.  “So it doesn’t matter what you think!  I beg your pardon, Lyd,” she added penitently, laying her hand on Lydia’s arm.  “But you know Rodney’s sisters would die if Grace came!”

“Well, I think it’s a mistake to slight Grace,” Lydia persisted.

Martie studied her pencilled list gloomily for a few seconds.

“Sometimes I wish we weren’t having it!” she said moodily.

“Oh, Martie, when we’ve always said we’d give anything to entertain as other people do!” Sally exclaimed.  “I do think that’s unreasonable!”