“You don’t know enough people down here to make an evening party,” said Nan.
“Oh, well, I know several,” said Patty; “and if we have eight or ten in the house, and get eight or ten more from among the Spring Beach cottagers, that will be enough for a small dance.”
“And there’s Mona,” put in her father, mischievously.
“Oh, Mona! I’m not going to ask her!”
“Why, Patty,” said Nan, “you’ll have to ask her,—your very next neighbour!”
“No, I won’t have to, either! I’m not going to spoil my whole birthday just because she happens to live next-door to me!”
“Patty,” said her father, “I think you must be a little more generous in your attitude toward that girl. You may not like her altogether, but you must be kind and polite to her, because, in a country place like this, we do owe a certain duty to our neighbours such as is never recognised in New York. And I want you to grow up an unselfish, generous woman, who would sacrifice her own feelings to those of her neighbour.”
“Of course you’re right, father, and I will try to conquer my dislike for that girl. But you know what she is.”
“Yes, I know what she is; she is uncongenial, and her manner irritates you. But there must be some good in her, Patty, and suppose you set yourself to work to find it.”
“All right, daddy, I’ll go you; but won’t you please let me wait until after my birthday is over?”