"Aunt Matilda and I are going," said Muriel in astonishment. "It was very nice last time. More than a hundred, big and little. They had the band, a splendid supper and lots of fun. Indeed, Aunt Penelope was almost unwilling I should go this time; it was so late when we got home."
"Very proper, my dear; I quite approve. Young people should keep early hours; but, you know, Betsey is a little older than you are. Not much," she added, as prudence pointed to the day, only a year or two ahead, when it would suit Betsey, if still a young lady, to be no older than Muriel--"still she is in long dresses, and it seems odd to invite her the first time to a child's party."
"They are not all children. Tilly Martindale, for instance, is as old as Betsey. So is Randolph Jordan himself and Gerald Herkimer."
"Will they be there?" cried Betsey kindling into interest. "We'd better go, auntie, there's no slight. I see the sort of thing it is; there are a few little girls--big little girls though, all the same--to give it the name of juvenile and take off the stiffness. Just like the candy pulling we had at Farmer Belmore's. You know Farmer Belmore's, Muriel? He lives just across the river and down below the island at St. Euphrase. His son's family from Michigan were with him in the fall, and his wife and daughters are too dévotes to meet their neighbours, and are only waiting his death to go off to the convent. However, the old man--and a good Protestant he is--was determined the children should have a good time, so he gave--a candy pulling and invited everybody for miles round--said it was for the children. So we all went--drove across the river on the first ice of the season--whether we knew Mrs. Belmore or no. And, Muriel, we had just the most too-too time you can imagine. The daughters sat in the back-room with one or two old French women, away from everybody, and the eldest granddaughter received the guests. There was a fiddle, and, oh, just a lovely time! Joe Webb and I pulled the whitest hank of candy in the room, and we danced eight-hand reels and country dances, till one of my shoes gave way and I had to sit out with Joe Webb. It was something beyond, I tell you!"
"Tush, Betsey!" said her aunt. "You are in the city now and must not go into raptures over rustic frolics, or people will think you know no better. I shall ask the Miss Stanleys about this, when I see them to-morrow. They will be able to tell me if we had better go, and how you should dress."
"Dress! Haven't I my geranium poplin?"
"But this is town, my dear, which may make a difference; one never knows. In my young days, now, I always wore white muslin and a blue sash! And you cannot think how many civil speeches I used to get" added the old lady, bridling, with a spot of pink on either cheek and a toss which set the treacle-coloured curls quivering. The war-horse is never too old to prance and champ his bit at the sound of the trumpet, though he may be so old that no one can remember his ever having been in action.
"I do not remember ever seeing geranium poplin at a party," said Muriel, looking to Betsey; but her eyes fell before the glance of displeased superiority she met there.
"You have not seen my dress, or you would speak more guardedly. Besides, you are not out yet, and cannot be expected to know what goes on at fashionable gatherings."
"No," said Muriel, meekly, "I am only a little girl, I know that. Still, at the juvenile parties I go to--Mrs. Jordan's, Mrs. Herkimer's, and the rest--and at our parties at home, though they are not balls by any means--quite small affairs--the people dress very nicely--velvet, satin, lace, and so on--but I never saw a geranium poplin."