"'Gumswith!' Fancy!" ejaculated the farmers critical
daughter.
"Yes, isn't it awful?" returned Janice. "Anybody would be sorry for a boy with such a name. And he hasn't even a middle one they can call him by. You know it isn't his fault, Stella, that he has such a horrid name."
"No, I don't suppose it is. But—"
"And Amy is so nice. She is just about my size, Stella, and if you promise never to tell—"
"What is it? A secret?" eagerly demanded Stella, as Janice hesitated.
"Yes. Or it will be a secret if you promise."
"Cross my heart, Janice," declared Stella, who loved secrets.
"Well—now," said Janice Day, most seriously, "if you invite Amy, and she can't come because she hasn't any party dress, I'll lend her one of mine that was made for me just before my mother died. I am wearing only black and white. I've outgrown those new dresses that were made for me then, I guess. And Amy is just a weeny bit smaller than I am."
"But Janice Day! you—you're helping Amy Carringford. You're not helping me at all!"