"All right," and Ernestine ran down the hall.
"Oh, Olive! come with us; here's an invitation from Mrs. Richards. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings; come on."
"I don't care for anything that you said, and I've something to think about besides invitations. Go away, will you?"
"Oh, certainly," and having glibly uttered her penitent speech, Ernestine cared nothing about its reception, but hurried back to discuss their dress with Beatrice.
"But mama has not said that we can go," said Bea, caressing the tinted paper, as she interrupted an enthusiastic speech that was making Ernestine's eyes glow like diamonds.
"But she will; why shouldn't she? Any how I'm going to believe that she will, I will wear my silk and my new scarf, and borrow mama's laces for the sleeves, and her white comb, and jewelry with the bracelets, if she will loan them;—do you suppose she will?"
"No, I know she won't; she'll think it's too much dress for a young girl. Wear flowers."
"Nonsense! I won't. I want the jewelry. What will you wear?"
"My cashmere; it's all I've got," and Bea sighed a little, for she did love to look nice. "The sleeves are dreadfully worn, and the over-skirt isn't the latest; but it can't be made over again, and I can't afford to spend a cent."
"Never mind," said Ernestine, who could, and did readily advise what she disliked to practice. "Brush it up good, put ink over the little hole in the sleeve, and I'll loop the over-skirt so that it looks later in style, and loan you my blue bows."