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Lily had resolved to be of the party. She resorted to no open methods; the stones of the fighting suffragettes were not for her, little honey-sweet, curled, and ruffled darling; rather the time-worn, if not time-sanctified, weapons of her sex, little instruments of wiles, and tiny dodges, and tiny subterfuges, which would serve her best.

“You know,” she said to Amelia, “you don’t look like me. Of course you know that, and that can’t be helped; but you do walk like me, and talk like me, you know that, because they call you ‘CopyCat.'”

“Yes, I know,” said poor Amelia.

“I don’t mind if they do call you ‘Copy-Cat,'” said Lily, magnanimously. “I don’t mind a bit. But, you see, my mother always comes up-stairs to kiss me good night after I have gone to bed, and tomorrow night she has a dinner-party, and she will surely be a little late, and I can’t manage unless you help me. I will get one of my white dresses for you, and all you have to do is to climb out of your window into that cedar-tree — you know you can climb down that, because you are so afraid of burglars climbing up — and you can slip on my dress; you had better throw it out of the window and not try to climb in it, because my dresses tear awful easy, and we might get caught that way. Then you just sneak down to our house, and I shall be outdoors; and when you go up-stairs, if the doors should be open, and anybody should call, you can answer just like me; and I have found that light curly wig Aunt Laura wore when she had her head shaved after she had a fever, and you just put that on and go to bed, and mother will never know when she kisses you good night. Then after the roast I will go to your house, and climb up that tree, and go to bed in your room. And I will have one of your gingham dresses to wear, and very early in the morning I will get up, and you get up, and we both of us can get down the back stairs without being seen, and run home.”

Amelia was almost weeping. It was her worshiped Lily’s plan, but she was horribly scared. “I don’t know,” she faltered.

“Don’t know! You’ve got to! You don’t love me one single bit or you wouldn’t stop to think about whether you didn’t know.” It was the world-old argument which floors love. Amelia succumbed.

The next evening a frightened little girl clad in one of Lily Jennings’s white embroidered frocks was racing to the Jenningses’ house, and another little girl, not at all frightened, but enjoying the stimulus of mischief and unwontedness, was racing to the wood behind Dr. Trumbull’s house, and that little girl was clad in one of Amelia Wheeler’s ginghams. But the plan went all awry.

Lily waited, snuggled up behind an alder-bush, and the boys came, one by one, and she heard this whispered, although there was no necessity for whispering, “Jim Patterson, where’s that hen?”

“Couldn’t get her. Grabbed her, and all her tail-feathers came out in a bunch right in my hand, and she squawked so, father heard. He was in his study writing his sermon, and he came out, and if I hadn’t hid behind the chicken-coop and then run I couldn’t have got here. But I can’t see as you’ve got any corn, Johnny Trumbull.”

“Couldn’t. Every single ear was cooked for dinner.”

“I couldn’t bring any cookies, either,” said Lee Westminster; “there weren’t any cookies in the jar.”

“And I couldn’t bring the potatoes, because the outside cellar door was locked,” said Arnold Carruth. “I had to go down the back stairs and out the south door, and the inside cellar door opens out of our dining-room, and I daren’t go in there.”