“Oh, he’s invited,” said Jane.  “Only I think maybe he won’t go.”

“My goo’ness!  Why ain’ he goin’?”

Jane looked at her friend studiously before replying.  “Well, it’s a secret,” she said, finally, “but it’s a very inter’sting one, an’ I’ll tell you if you never tell.”

“Yes’m, I ain’ tellin’ nobody.”

Jane glanced round, then stepped a little closer and told the secret with the solemnity it deserved.  “Well, when Miss Pratt first came to visit Miss May Parcher, Willie used to keep papa’s evening clo’es in his window-seat, an’ mamma wondered what had become of ’em.  Then, after dinner, he’d slip up there an’ put ’em on him, an’ go out through the kitchen an’ call on Miss Pratt.  Then mamma found ’em, an’ she thought he oughtn’t to do that, so she didn’t tell him or anything, an’ she didn’t even tell papa, but she had the tailor make ’em ever an’ ever so much bigger, ‘cause they were gettin’ too tight for papa.  An’ well, so after that, even if Willie could get ’em out o’ mamma’s clo’es-closet where she keeps ’em now, he’d look so funny in ’em he couldn’t wear ’em.  Well, an’ then he couldn’t go to pay calls on Miss Pratt in the evening since then, because mamma says after he started to go there in that suit he couldn’t go without it, or maybe Miss Pratt or the other ones that’s in love of her would think it was pretty queer, an’ maybe kind of expeck it was papa’s all the time.  Mamma says she thinks Willie must have worried a good deal over reasons to say why he’d always go in the daytime after that, an’ never came in the evening, an’ now they’re goin’ to have this party, an’ she says he’s been gettin’ paler and paler every day since he heard about it.  Mamma says he’s pale some because Miss Pratt’s goin’ away, but she thinks it’s a good deal more because, well, if he would wear those evening clo’es just to go Callin’, how would it be to go to that party an’ not have any!  That’s what mamma thinks—­an’, Genesis, you promised you’d never tell as long as you live!”

“Yes’m. I ain’ tellin’,” Genesis chuckled.  “I’m a-go’n’ agit me one nem waituh suits befo’ long, myse’f, so’s I kin quit wearin’ ’at ole Henry Gimlet suit what b’long to Fanny, an’ have me a privut suit o’ my own.  They’s a secon’-han’ sto’ ovuh on the avynoo, where they got swallertail suits all way f’um sevum dolluhs to nineteem dolluhs an’ ninety-eight cents.  I’m a—­”

Jane started, interrupting him. “’Sh!” she whispered, laying a finger warningly upon her lips.

William had entered the yard at the back gate, and, approaching over the lawn, had arrived at the steps of the porch before Jane perceived him.  She gave him an apprehensive look, but he passed into the house absent-mindedly, not even flinching at sight of Clematis—­and Mrs. Baxter was right, William did look pale.