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Never had a party been heard of which contemplated such a liberal entertainment, for the rising generation of Poganuc were by no means wearied with indulgence, and raisins and almonds stood for grandeur with them. But these mottoes, which consisted of bits of confectionery wrapped up in printed couplets of sentimental poetry, were an unheard-of refinement. Bessie assured them that her papa had sent clear to Boston for them, and whoever got one would have his or her fortune told by it.

The school was a small, select one, comprising the children of all ages from the best families of Poganuc. Both boys and girls, and all with great impartiality, had been invited. Miss Titcome, the teacher, quite readily promised to dismiss at three o’clock that afternoon any scholar who should bring a permission from parents, and the children nothing doubted that such a permission was obtainable.

Dolly alone saw a cloud in the horizon. She had been sent away with strict injunctions not to return till evening, and children in those days never presumed to make any exceptions in obeying an absolute command of their parents.

“But, of course, you will go home at noon and ask your mother, and of course she’ll let you; won’t she, girls?” said Bessie.

“Oh, certainly; of course she will,” said all the older girls, “because you know a party is a thing that don’t happen every day, and your mother would think it strange if you didn’t come and ask her.” So, too, thought Miss Titcome, a most exemplary, precise and proper young lady, who always moved and spoke and thought as became a schoolmistress, so that, although she was in reality only twenty years old, Dolly considered her as a very advanced and ancient person–if anything, a little older than her father and mother.

Even she was of opinion that Dolly might properly go home to lay a case of such importance before her mother; and so Dolly rushed home after the morning school was over, running with all her might, and increasing in mental excitement as she ran. Her bonnet blew off upon her shoulders, her curls flew behind her in the wind, and she most inconsiderately used up the little stock of breath that she would want to set her cause in order before her mother.

Just here we must beg any mother and housekeeper to imagine herself in the very midst of the most delicate, perplexing and laborious of household tasks, when interruption is most irksome and perilous, suddenly called to discuss with a child some new and startling proposition to which at the moment she cannot even give a thought.

Mrs. Cushing was sitting in the kitchen with Mis’ Persis, by the side of a caldron of melted tallow, kept in a fluid state by the heat of a portable furnace on which it stood. A long train of half-dipped candles hung like so many stalactites from the frames on which the rods rested, and the two were patiently dipping set after set and replacing them again on the frame.

“As sure as I’m alive! if there isn’t Dolly Cushing comin’ back–runnin’ and tearin’ like a wild cretur’,” said Mis’ Persis. “She’ll be in here in a minute and knock everything down!”

Mrs. Cushing looked, and with a quick movement stepped to the door.

“Dolly! what are you here for? Didn’t I tell you not to come home this noon?”

“Oh, mamma, there’s going to be a party at General Lewis’–Bessie’s party–and the girls are all going; mayn’t I go?”

“No, you can’t; it’s impossible,” said her mother. “Your best dress isn’t ready to wear, and there’s nobody can spend time to get you ready. Go right back to school.”

“But, mamma–“

“Go!” said her mother, in the decisive tone that mothers used in the old days, when arguing with children was not a possibility.

“What’s all this about?” asked the Doctor, looking out of the door.

“Why,” said Mrs. Cushing, “there’s going to be a party at General Lewis’, and Dolly is wild to go. It’s just impossible for me to attend to her now.”