"I'm thankful to hear that. One never knows what you will do."
Mrs. McGregor gave a sigh of relief and taking the card examined it.
"Perhaps," she presently observed in a gentler tone, "this invitation has nothing to do with you. It may be possible that young Mr. Coulter remembered how long your father worked in the mills and thought it would be nice to ask us because of that. If so, it was very thoughtful of him. And most likely the card was sent to you because he happened to have heard your name. Goodness knows, with the messes you're in, I should think all the town might be aware of it."
"And you'll go, Ma?" In his eagerness Carl brushed aside the unflattering picture his mother's words presented.
"If I find it's a bona fide invitation and not some of your concocting I'll go—not otherwise. It would be ungrateful to snub Mr. John if he is trying to be kind. But the thing that makes me doubtful is that the envelope should be addressed to you. Why wasn't the invitation sent to me? I am the head of the family—or at least I attempt to be," amended she with an upward curve of her lips.
"Oh, who cares, Ma, who the invitation was addressed to?" cut in Carl impatiently. "The main thing is that it's come and we are going to the party. I'd go had it been sent to James Frederick. What does it matter? Say, Ma, isn't it lucky you hadn't loaned our clothes? We'll need 'em ourselves now."
"When is the wedding?" Mary asked.
"Do you mean to say you don't even know?" inquired her brother with scorn.
"I've forgotten."
"You have! Then you are the only person in Baileyville who has," was the sarcastic rejoinder. "Well, if you must know, it's the day after to-day."