Grandmother Harcourt did not say anything. I fancy that she must have had it all arranged beforehand, for, after a rather appealing look at her, my mother declined the offer in a faint, reluctant voice.
I did not care what I wore. I was going to a party. That was enough for me. All the night before I could not sleep, and when, at last, the hour drew near, and I stood before my mother while she gave a final touch to my floating hair, I felt that it was all a dream. It was a dream going down the stairs while the twins, in their nightgowns, peeped after me, and it was a dream getting into the carriage which Auntie May had brought to take me. The very streets were a dream, with little white-clad girls passing in our direction and little boys, with stiff white collars and solemn faces, walking along behind them. And most of all that big house on the hill was a dream, with the lights shining in all its windows, and the rows of Chinese lanterns in the piazza, and a nearby violin letting off cheerful notes of preparation.
"Mrs. Otway is giving this party for the two little grandchildren who are visiting her," Auntie May said, peering out of the carriage window. "They come from the city. They are cousins. You saw them in church on Sunday."
So that was who they were! I felt that I had learned something. Only the Sunday before there had come into the pew before me, first a little boy, and then a little girl, followed by a party of ladies. The little boy sat up in the far end of the pew, just as I did, and he had a high silk hat laid on the cushion beside him, and an elegant cane with a silver head to which he seemed much attached. I never noticed little boys as a rule. I divided them into two classes: boys who walked clumsily, in heavy boots, and glanced sidewise at me, and bad boys who made awful faces from behind trees. Never to one of them had I said a single word. That boy, however, was something quite different. I knew that as soon as I looked at him. He had a light graceful figure, and brave, beautiful eyes. When he gazed over his shoulder and smiled at me, I felt strangely pleased. It was as though some one whom I had known a long time ago had come again.
"Oh, so he is Theodore Otway!" I cried, unguardedly, remembering the name on my pink invitation.
Auntie May laughed a whole minute, just about nothing at all.
"You get down here, Rhoda," she said. "Now, remember to shake out your hair the way that I showed you. And don't you get frightened as you always do. Your dress isn't very fine; but there is one thing that is nice about it. It has real lace basted in the neck. Mother put it in. Just fancy, grandmother Harcourt never noticed! Always give your right hand first in the ladies' chain. You are the only little girl who has come in a carriage. Oh, dear me, I wish that it wasn't a children's party! I'd just love to go in! The lovely, lovely music! What shall you do, Rhoda, if you get very frightened?"
"I'll shut my eyes, and think that I'm in church," I answered, soberly.
"Good heavens!" I heard her cry as the carriage drove away, "there's the other side of the family coming out after all!"