The Tuckermans, a family of ten, were all clamorous to come, but Ladybird was obliged to select two, as that made her number ten, and she was determined to invite Stella Russell.
Her errands all accomplished, she went home with a light heart, and found her aunts just putting the finishing touches to a daintily set table.
Although buoyed up during the morning by a firm conviction that she was following out her aunts’ wishes in spirit, if not in letter, the incongruity between the pretty table and the forlorn-looking specimens of humanity she had invited to sit at it suddenly came home to her, and she began to doubt whether she had acted wisely after all. So grave was this doubt that she could not bring herself to tell her aunts what she had done.
“Did you invite eleven?” asked Miss Priscilla, who was placing the chairs which Martha brought from other rooms.
“Yes, ’m,” said Ladybird; “and Stella Russell is one of them.”
“Very well,” said Miss Flint; “she seems somewhat old for your party, but she can help entertain the children. Now we will eat our luncheon at the side-table, for I don’t want this one disturbed, and then after that you can dress for the party. You may wear your white cashmere frock with red ribbons, and see that your hair is smooth and tidy. I want you to look as neat as any of your guests.”
“Yes, ’m,” said Ladybird, with a growing conviction that her aunts would not care to practise what they preached, so radically as she had arranged.
“Aunt Priscilla,” she said at luncheon, “perhaps you won’t like some of the people I have invited; but you know you told me to invite those who would enjoy it most.”
“For the land’s sake, Ladybird, what have you been doing now? If you’ve done anything ridiculous, you may as well out with it first as last.”
Like a flash, Ladybird realized that what she had done was ridiculous. Right it might be, charitable it might be, even according to Scripture it might be, but none the less it certainly was ridiculous.