Bob considered. "I guess I do. But why do I have to ask them?"
"Because they're not having as much fun as the others. You wouldn't like never to be asked by anybody, would you?"
"I don't care 'bout any girls ever asking me," Bob insisted stoutly. "I like boy games better—'circus' and 'grandfather's barn.' Only they let the girls play those too," he added, disgustedly.
He started away. But he came back again to say, soberly, "I'll ask Jennie Hobson, if you want me to, Aunt Ellen. She's some like a boy, anyway. Her hair's cut tight to her head—and her eyes are funny. They don't look at you the same."
"Do ask her, Bob. And tell me how she liked it." And Ellen looked affectionately after the small, straight little figure trudging away down the street.
Martha's plans for her reception went on merrily. On the day set she came hurrying over before breakfast, to administer to her brother-in-law a final admonition concerning the coming evening.
"I hope this isn't going to be the busiest day of your life?" she urged Burns.
"It's bound to be,—getting things clear for to-night," he assured her, good-humouredly.
"Promise me you won't let anything short of a case of life or death keep you away?"
"It's as serious as that, is it? All right, I'll be on hand, unless the heavens fall."