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“I know that. But, Caddy dear, it is impossible. I don’t think that I have any foolish pride about clothes, but you know it is out of the question to think of going to Clare Forbes’s party in my last winter’s plaid dress, which is a good two inches too short and skimpy in proportion. Putting my own feelings aside, it would be an insult to Clare. There, don’t think any more about it.”

But Carry did think about it. She lay awake half the night wondering if there might not be some way for Patty to go to that party. She knew it was impossible, unless Patty had a new dress, and how could a new dress be had? Yet she did so want Patty to go. Patty never had any good times, and she was studying so hard. Then, all at once, Carry thought of a way by which Patty might have a new dress. She had been tossing restlessly, but now she lay very still, staring with wide-open eyes at the moonlit window, with the big willow boughs branching darkly across it. Yes, it was a way, but could she? Could she? Yes, she could, and she would. Carry buried her face in her pillow with a sob and a gulp. But she had decided what must be done, and how it must be done.

“Are you going to begin on your organdie today?” asked Patty in the morning, before she started for school.

“I must finish Mrs. Pidgeon’s suit first,” Carry answered. “Next week will be time enough to think about my wedding garments.”

She tried to laugh and failed. Patty thought with a pang that Carry looked horribly pale and tired–probably she had worried most of the night over the interest. “I’m so glad she’s going to Chris’s wedding,” thought Patty, as she hurried down the street. “It will take her out of herself and give her something nice to think of for ever so long.”

Nothing more was said that week about the organdie, or the wedding, or the Forbes’s party. Carry sewed fiercely, and sat at her machine for hours after Patty had gone to bed. The night before the party she said to Patty, “Braid your hair tonight, Patty. You’ll want it nice and wavy to go to the Forbes’s tomorrow night.”

Patty thought that Carry was actually trying to perpetrate a weak joke, and endeavoured to laugh. But it was a rather dreary laugh. Patty, after a hard evening’s study, felt tired and discouraged, and she was really dreadfully disappointed about the party, although she wouldn’t have let Carry suspect it for the world.

“You’re going, you know,” said Carry, as serious as a judge, although there was a little twinkle in her eyes.

“In a faded plaid two inches too short?” Patty smiled as brightly as possible.

“Oh, no. I have a dress all ready for you.” Carry opened the wardrobe door and took out–the loveliest girlish dress of creamy organdie, with pale pink roses scattered over it, made with the daintiest of ruffles and tucks, with a bertha of soft creamy lace, and a girdle of white silk. “This is for you,” said Carry.

Patty gazed at the dress with horror-stricken eyes. “Caroline Lea, that is your organdie! And you’ve gone and made it up for me! Carry Lea, what are you going to wear to the wedding?”

“Nothing. I’m not going.”

“You are–you must–you shall. I won’t take the organdie.”

“You’ll have to now, because it’s made to fit you. Come, Patty dear, I’ve set my heart on your going to that party. You mustn’t disappoint me–you can’t, for what good would it do? I can never wear the dress now.”

Patty realized that. She knew she might as well go to the party, but she did not feel much pleasure in the prospect. Nevertheless, when she was ready for it the next evening, she couldn’t help a little thrill of delight. The dress was so pretty, and dainty, and becoming.