“I think his sister,” said Lucina; “she is such a pretty girl—­the prettiest girl in the village, and it will please her so to be asked.”

“The Edwards boy and his sister, and who else?”

“No one else, I think, Aunt Camilla, except Lawrence Prescott.  There will not be room for more in the arbor.”

Lucina did not blush when she said Lawrence Prescott, but her aunt did.  She had often romanced about the two.  “Well, dear,” she said, “when shall we have the tea-party?”

“Day after to-morrow, please, Aunt Camilla.”

“That will give ’Liza time to make cake,” said Camilla.  “I will send the invitations to-morrow, dear.”

“’Liza will be too busy cake-making to run on errands,” said Lucina, though her heart smote her, for this was where the true gist of her duplicity came in; “write them now, Aunt Camilla, and give them to me.  I will see that they are delivered.”

The afternoon of the next day Lucina, being out riding, passed Doctor Prescott’s house, and called to Jake Noyes in the yard to take Miss Camilla’s little gilt-edged, lavender-scented note of invitation.  “Please give this to Mr. Lawrence,” said she, prettily, and rode on.  The other notes were in her pocket, but she had not delivered them when she returned home at sunset.

“I am going to run over to Elmira Edwards and carry them,” she told her mother after supper, and pleaded that she would like the air when Mrs. Merritt suggested that Hannah be sent.

Thus it happened that Jerome Edwards, coming home about nine o’clock that night, noticed, the moment he opened the outer door, the breath of roses and lavender, and a subtle thrill of excitement and almost fear passed over him.  “Who is it?” he thought.  He listened, and heard voices in the parlor.  He wanted to pass the door, but he could not.  He opened it and peered in, white-faced and wide-eyes, and there was Lucina with his mother and sister.

Mrs. Edwards and Elmira looked nervously flushed and elated; there were bright spots on their cheeks, their eyes shone.  On the table were Miss Camilla’s little gilt-edged missives.  Lucina was somewhat pale, and her face had been furtively watchful and listening.  When Jerome opened the door, her look changed to one of relief, which had yet a certain terror and confusion in it.  She rose at once, bowed gracefully, until the hem of her muslin skirt swept the floor, and bade Jerome good-evening.  As for Jerome, he stood still, looking at her.

“Why, J’rome, don’t you see who ’tis?” cried his mother, in her sharp, excited voice, yet with an encouraging smile—­the smile of a mother who would put a child upon its best behavior for the sake of her own pride.

Jerome murmured, “Good-evening.”  He made a desperate grasp at his self-possession, but scarcely succeeded.

Lucina pulled a little fleecy white wrap over her head, and immediately took leave.  Jerome stood aside to let her pass.  Elmira followed her to the outer door, and his mother called him in a sharp whisper, “J’rome, come here.”