"My dear Etta," the note ran,
"The 9th is having a dance on the 28th. I wish you would come and stay with us for it. Come, and bring Evelyn. I particularly want to have her for it. There is a special reason. Everyone is enchanted with the dear little thing. I shall be disappointed if you don't come too. It all happened such years ago, surely we may forget it; and Edward is always asking me why I do not have you, and it seems so absurd, when I have no proper reason to give. I shall really think it too bad of you, if you don't come.
Your affec.,
L. N. Carrington."
Henrietta, thinking over the matter, found there was no reason why she should not go. At twenty-seven she felt herself rather older than this generation at forty-eight, and thought it ridiculous that she should be going to a dance. But once she was there, Louie made her feel so much at home, she found her remarks were so warmly welcomed, and her few hesitating sallies so much enjoyed, that she began to think that after all she was not completely on the shelf.
"Don't go to-morrow, Etta—stay here. There's the Steeplechase on Friday; I want you to see that."
"No, thank you, Louie," said Henrietta; "I can't leave mother longer. It's been very delightful, more delightful than you can realize, perhaps—you're so much accustomed to it; but I must get back."
"Now, that really is nonsense, Etta. Mother has Ellen, and she has father, and she is pretty well for her; you said so yourself."
But Henrietta persisted in her refusal, for she had all the strong, though sometimes unthinking, sense of duty of her generation.
"Well, if you will go, you must. But now you have begun coming, come often. Write a line whenever you like and propose yourself."
As they said good-night, Louie whispered, "Have you forgiven me, Etty?"