"Good gracious, Marie!" exclaimed Patty, popping her head in at Marie's door, just before dinner time, "we haven't any clothes! Are you going to wear your party frock or the dress you wore up here?"

"'Deed I'm not going to put on my best gown for a little home dinner!

The dresses we wore up here are all right. They're nice and pretty."

"But they're day frocks. I DO like to dress up for dinner."

"I'll help you out," said Lora Perry, who was present. "I've two or three trunkfuls of old-fashioned clothes, that ought to fit you girls fairly well. They're not antiques, you know; they're some I had before I was married,—but they're pretty. Go in the trunk room and rummage."

So the two girls went to inspect the frocks.

"Why, they're beautiful," said Patty; "I really think they're a lot prettier than the things we wear to-day. Oh, look at these big sleeves."

"Yes, leg o' mutton they used to call them."

"I know, but they're more the size of a side of beef! But these are street dresses. Where are the evening things?"

"Here are some," said Marie, opening another trunk.

"Oh, how lovely!" And Patty pounced on a white organdy, made with a full skirt and three narrow, lace-edged frills. There were wide, full petticoats to go with it, and Patty declared that was her costume. Marie found a dimity, of a Dresden-flowered pattern, with black velvet bows, which she appropriated, and they flew back to their rooms in triumph.

The white dress proved very becoming to Patty, and the square-cut neck of the bodice suited the lines of her pretty throat and shoulders. She wore a broad sash of blue ribbon and a knot of blue ribbon in her hair. Marie's dress was equally pretty, and they laughed heartily at the full, flaring skirts, so different from the narrow ones of their own wardrobe.

They went downstairs together, and found waiting for them two bored-looking young men, in immaculate evening clothes.

"Good-evening," said Patty, dropping a little curtsy; "SO glad to meet you."

"Thought you'd never come," returned Kit. "What are you, anyway?

Masquerading as old-fashioned girls?"

"Are they old-fashioned togs?" said Kenneth. "I thought they looked different, but I didn't know what ailed them."

"They're perfectly beautiful evening frocks," Patty declared, "and you're not to make fun of them."

"Far be it from me to make fun of anything so charming," returned

Cameron. "Come along, Captive Princess, dinner is waiting." He tucked

Patty's hand in his arm, and as they walked to the dining-room, he

murmured: "You really are a Captive Princess now, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am; and if you're my Knight, aren't you going to deliver me from durance vile?"

"Of course I am. I will be under your window at midnight with a rope ladder and a white palfrey."

"Well, if I'm awake I'll come down the ladder; but if not, don't expect me."

"But if you want to be rescued, you must take the opportunity when it offers."

"Oh, I'm not so sure I want to be rescued. I'm ready now to make the best of things and I'm planning to have a real good time while we stay here."

"Nice little Captive Princess! Nice little Princess Poppycheek! And am

I included in these good times?"

"Yes, indeed. It will take the four of us; and Mrs. Perry, whenever we can get her, to have the good times I'm planning."

All through dinner time Patty was her own gay, merry self. Babette was not mentioned, nor the fact that they were staying in Eastchester, under compulsion, and it might have been just a happy party invited there for pleasure.

Mr. Perry's absence was, of course, painfully noticeable. But Patty knew that Mrs. Peny had telephoned him all about the case, and she made no comment. She was determined that she would not be responsible for any allusion to their trouble.

After dinner Patty informed them all that a musicale would take place. Everybody agreed to this, and all joined in singing gay choruses and glees. Patty sang solos, and Kit and Marie played duets. Then Patty sang to a violin obligato, and altogether the concert was a real success.

"We ought to go on the road," said Kit, as he laid down his violin at last. "I think as a musical troupe we'd be a screaming success. Now, who's for a little dance to wind up with?"

"Do dance," said Mrs. Perry; "I'll play for you."

"Just one, then," said Patty, "for this is a rest-cure, you know; and I'm going to bed very early. Six weeks in the country is going to do wonders for me."

Though four weeks had been the extreme possibility of their stay, Patty whimsically kept calling it six weeks or eight weeks, because, as she said, that made four weeks seem less.

Cameron turned to Patty, as his sister began to play, and in a moment they were dancing.

"If we dance every night for twelve weeks," said Patty, "we ought to do fairly well together."

"When I think of that, I'm entirely reconciled to staying here," returned Kit. "Poppycheek, you are a wonderful dancer! You're like a butterfly skimming over a cobweb!"

"I don't dance a bit better than you do. You're almost like a professional, except that you're more graceful than they are."

"DON'T, Princess! don't talk to me like that, or I shall faint away from sheer delight! But as we both are such miraculous steppers, we might give exhibitions or something."

"Yes, or teach, and make our everlasting fortune."

"Well, I think we won't do either. We'll just reserve our glorious genius for our own enjoyment. Just think of dancing with you every night, for goodness knows how long!" said Kit.

"But you won't."

"Won't? Why not?"

"Because before we've been here many days we shall quarrel. I know we will. Four people can't be shut up inside four walls without quarrelling sooner or later."

"Well, let's make it later. And, anyway, I'm so good-natured, you couldn't quarrel with me if you tried."

"I couldn't quarrel with you while I'm dancing with you, anyway. But

now this dance is over and there's not to be another one to-night.

Good-night, everybody. Come, Marie," and taking Marie by the hand,

Patty led her upstairs at once.

"Oh, DON'T go!" cried the two young men, but Patty and Marie only leaned over the banisters, and called down laughing good-nights, and ran away to their rooms.

Next morning, Patty declared they must adhere to the policy of keeping more or less to themselves.

"I can put in a lovely morning," she said; "I shall visit the baby in the nursery and I shall read for awhile, and I'll have a long telephone conversation with Nan and perhaps some other people, and I'm not going downstairs till luncheon time. You do as you like, Marie."

Marie declared her intention of doing whatever Patty did, so the two girls spent a pleasant morning upstairs.

Mrs. Perry reported that Babette was no worse, and that the doctor had said nothing further than that.

At luncheon time, the girls went downstairs and were greeted with reproofs for being so late.

"We'll play with you this afternoon," said Patty, kindly, "but you can't expect to have our company all day. I've had a lovely time this morning; Baby Boo is an entertainment in herself."

"Why didn't you let me come up to the nursery?" said Kit. "That

Kiddy-baby loves me."

"She does, indeed," said Patty, serenely; "she's been asking for Uncle

Kit all the morning."

"Cruel Princess!" said Cameron; "you're not a bit nice to your Knight!"

"I'll make up for it this afternoon," and Patty flashed him a glance that seemed greatly to cheer him.

After lunch they all went into the library. Patty threw herself into a big arm-chair.

"Now, I want to be entertained," she said; "I'm perfectly amiable and affable and good-natured, but I wish to be amused. Will you do it, my Knight?"

"Ay, Princess, that will I!" and Cameron made a flourishing and obsequious bow before her. "Would it amuse your Royal Highness to learn that you're going home this afternoon?"

"That is but a cruel jest," said Patty, "and so, not amusing. If it were the truth, it would be good hearing, indeed."

"But it IS the truth, fair lady." Cameron looked at his watch. "In about an hour, the speedy motor will convey us all back to the busy mart and to our homes."

"What do you mean?" cried Patty, starting up; for she saw that it was not a mere jest.

"May I make a speech?" and Cameron took the middle of the floor, while his hearers sat in breathless silence.

Mrs. Perry had a twinkle in her eye, Kenneth looked hopeful, but the girls' faces expressed only blank wonder.

"To begin with," said Mr. Cameron, in a cool, even voice, "we're not quarantined, and never have been. To proceed, Babette has not the diphtheria, and never has had. In a word, and I trust I shall not be flayed alive,—this whole affair is a practical joke, which I have had the honour to perpetrate on Miss Patricia Fairfield, and for which I claim the payment of a wager made by the fair lady herself!"

Patty's blue eyes stared at him. At first, a furious wave of anger swept over her, and then her sense of justice made her realise that she had no right to be angry. It took her a few moments to realise the whole situation, and then she began to laugh.

She jumped up and went to Cameron, and with her little fist she pounded his broad shoulder.

"I—THINK—YOU'RE—PERFECTLY—HORRID!!" she exclaimed, emphasising each word by a pound on his shoulders.

Then she stood back with dignity. "How DARE you do such a thing?" she cried, stamping her foot at him.

"There, there, little Princess,—little Captive Princess,—don't take it so hard! Don't let your joy at your escape be marred by your chagrin at having been caught!"

"Do you mean to say, Cameron," said Kenneth, rather sternly, "that you trumped up this quarantine business, and it's all a fake?"

"Just exactly that," said Cameron, calmly, and looking Ken steadily in the eye.

"You've made me a lot of trouble, old man," and Kenneth's voice was regretful rather than reproachful.

"Oh, not so much," said Cameron, airily. "I took the liberty of telephoning your office after you did yesterday, and told them that it was probable you'd be back there this afternoon."

Kenneth stared at him speechlessly, stupefied by this exhibition of nerve.

"Did you know all about it, Lora?" demanded Marie, turning to Mrs.

Perry.

"Yes," said that lady, between spasms of laughter. "I didn't want to do it, but Kit just made me! You see, Babette did have an awful sore throat, and we did call a nurse, but the doctor said, that while it might turn toward diphtheria, there was small danger of it. And, this morning, he said even that danger had passed. Truly, girls, I didn't consent willingly, but Kit coaxed me into it. Of course, I telephoned Dick the whole story, and he stayed in town last night, but he's coming home this afternoon. You're not angry, are you, Patty?"

"I don't know whether I am or not. I'm a little bewildered as yet. But I think, in fairness, I shall have to admit it was a most successful practical joke,—as such jokes go."

"And it fulfilled all your conditions?" asked Cameron, eagerly.

"I'm not sure of that. We agreed that it must be clever and not unkind. It was certainly clever, but wasn't it a little unkind to cause trouble to so many people? Mrs. Homer, for instance?"

"No!" exclaimed Kit, hastily. "I telephoned last evening to auntie, and told her that there was probability that the quarantine would be lifted to-day. I telephoned the same thing to Mrs. Fairfield, but I told both ladies not to mention that to you girls, as I didn't want to raise false hopes. Oh, I looked out for every point, and you're not angry with me, are you, Princess?"

He was so wheedlesome and so boyish in his enjoyment of the joke, that Patty hadn't the heart to scold him, nor was she sure she had any reason to do so.

"I admit it," she said, "you certainly did play a practical joke on me successfully, though I didn't think you could. You have won the wager, and I shall of course pay my debt. But just now, I'm interested in the fact that we're going home. And yet," she added, turning to her hostess, "isn't it funny? Now that we CAN go, I don't want to go! Now it seems like a house party again."

Patty beamed around on them all, and seemed a different girl from the

Patty of the last twenty-four hours.

"You were a brick!" said Kenneth, "through it all. I know how you suffered, but you bravely forgot yourself in trying to make it pleasant for the others."

"Nonsense! I acted like a pig! A horrid, round, fat pig! But, truly, it was the most different sensation to be quarantined here or to be visiting here. I wouldn't believe, if I hadn't tried it, what a difference there is! Oh, it's just lovely here, now!" and Patty executed a little fancy dance, singing a merry little song to it.

"Well, I'll tell you how to get even," said Mrs. Perry; "all of you come up here again soon, for a little visit, and leave Kit at home! Then I guess he'll be sorry."

At this, Kit emitted a wail of grief and anguish, and then the girls ran away to pack their things for the homeward trip.

Within the hour, they had started for New York. Patty had entirely forgiven Cameron, and was ready to enjoy the memory of the affair as a good joke upon herself.

"I don't approve of practical jokes," she said, by way of summing up. "I never did, and I don't now. But I know that I brought it on myself by making that foolish bet, and it has taught me a lesson never to do such a thing again. And I forgive you, Mr. Kit Cameron, only on condition that you give me your promise never to play a joke on me again. I admit that you CAN do it, but I ask that you WON'T do it."

"I promise, Princess," said Cameron. "Henceforward, there shall be no jokes between us,—of course, I mean practical jokes. But you will make good your wager?"

"Certainly; I always pay my just debts."

"May I come and collect the debt this evening?"

"No, that's too soon; come to-morrow night, if you like. This evening I devote to a reunion with my family."

"Nobody else?"

"Possibly somebody else,—somebody who was defrauded by your precious joke." And then a sudden light dawned upon Patty. "WAS your quarantine idea worked up in order to keep me away from New York last night?"

"Partly," said Cameron, honestly; "I didn't see any other way to cut out Van Reypen, and it fitted in with my whole plan, so why not?"

"It wasn't very nice of you."

"All's fair in love and war," and Cameron laughed so gaily, that Patty concluded it was wiser to drop the subject.

"I think it was awfully hard for poor Mr. Van Reypen to lose Patty from the party, because of your old joke!" exclaimed Marie.

"I don't mind that part of it," said Kenneth; "he might as well have a little corner of the joke, as the rest of us. But if I've lost a five thousand dollar deal on this, I'll sue you for damages, Cameron."

"Sue ahead," said the irrepressible Kit; "I've danced, and I'm willing to pay the piper."

Kenneth and Marie were left at their homes, and the car went on to

Patty's house.

"May I come in?" said Cameron, as they reached it.

"No, indeed!" said Patty, and then she added, "I don't know—yes—perhaps you'd better. If father storms about this thing, I think you ought to be there and face the music."

"I think so, too," said Cameron, with alacrity; "I'd rather be there, and help my little Princess weather the storm."

They found Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield both at home, and they created an immense surprise by suddenly appearing before them.

"Why, Patty Fairfield!" cried Nan, "you DEAR child!" She wrapped Patty in her embrace as if welcoming one long lost. Nor was Mr. Fairfield less fervent in his demonstrations of welcome.

They shook Cameron warmly by the hand, and Nan rang for tea and said: "Tell us all about it! How did you get out? Was it a false alarm? Wasn't it diphtheria? Oh, Mr. Cameron, you relieved us so greatly last night, when you told us it might be a mistaken diagnosis! What is the matter with you two? What are you giggling about?"

And then the whole story came out. Cameron and Patty both talked at once, Cameron making a clean breast of the matter, and assuming all the blame, while Patty made excuses for him, and offered conciliatory explanations.

Nan went off in peals of laughter and declared it was the best joke she had ever heard.

But Mr. Fairfield hesitated as to his verdict. He asked many questions, to which he received straightforward answers.

At last, he said: "It was a prank, and I cannot say I think it was an admirable performance. But young folks will be young folks, and I trust I'm not so old and grouty as to frown on innocent fun. To my mind, this came perilously near NOT being entirely innocent, but I'm not going to split hairs about it. I don't care for such jokes myself, but I must admit, Cameron, you played it pretty cleverly. And you certainly did your share toward lessening any anxieties that might have been caused to other people. So there's my hand on it, boy, but if you'll take an older man's advice, put away these childish pranks as you take on the dignity of years."

"Thank you, Mr. Fairfield," said Cameron, "you make me feel almost ashamed of myself; but, truly, sir, I am addicted to jokes. I can't seem to help it!"

The handsome face was so waggish and full of sheer, joyous fun, that they all laughed and the matter was amicably settled.

"But I want my picture," Cameron said, as he rose to go.

"And you shall have it," said Patty, running out of the room.

She returned with a cabinet photograph, wrapped in a bit of tissue paper.

"Please appreciate it," she said, demurely, "for never before have I given my photograph to a young man. They say it is an excellent likeness of me."

Cameron removed the paper, and saw a picture of Patty taken at the age of two years.

It was a lovely baby picture, with merry eyes and smiling lips.

The quick-witted young man betrayed none of the disappointment he felt, and only said, "It is indeed a striking likeness! I never saw a better photograph! Thank you, a thousand times."

Then, amid the general laughter that ensued, Cameron went away.

The Fairfields discussed the whole matter, and Patty finally summed up the consensus of opinion, by saying: "Well, I don't care! It was an awfully good joke, and he's an awfully nice boy!"

CHAPTER XIII
SISTER BEE

One afternoon Patty and Marie Homer were coming home from a concert.

Patty had grown very fond of Marie. They were congenial in many ways, and especially so in their love of music, and often went together to concerts or recitals.

It was late in March, but as spring had come early the afternoon was warm and Marie proposed, as the two girls got into the Homer limousine, that they go for a ride through the park.

"A short one, then," said Patty, "for I must be home fairly early!"

"Then don't let's go in the park," said Marie, "let's go to my house, instead. For I want you to meet Bee. She's just home for her Easter vacation."

"I can only stay a minute; but I will go. I do want to see Bee. How long will she be at home?"

"More than a fortnight. She has quite a holiday. Oh, there'll be gay doings while Bee's at home. She keeps the house lively with her pranks, and if she and Kit get started they're sure to raise mischief."

"How old is Beatrice?"

"She's just seventeen, but sometimes she acts like a kiddy of twelve. Mother says she doesn't know what to do with her, the child is so full of capers."

As the two girls entered the Homer apartment, Beatrice Homer ran to meet them.

"Oh, you're Patty Fairfield! I KNOW you are! Aren't you the loveliest thing ever! You look like a bisque ornament to set on a mantel-piece. Are you real?"

She poked her finger in Patty's dimpled cheek, but she was so roguish and playful, that Patty could not feel annoyed with her.

"Let me look at you," Patty said, holding her off, "and see what YOU'RE like. Why, you're a gipsy, an elfin sprite, a witch of the woods! You have no business to be named Beatrice."

"I know it," said Bee, dancing around on her toes. "But my nickname isn't so bad for me, is it?" And she waved her arms and hovered around Patty, making a buzzing noise like a real bee.

"Don't sting me!" cried Patty.

"Oh, I don't sting my friends! I'm a honey-bee. A dear, little, busy, buzzy honey-bee!" And she kept on dancing around and buzzing till Patty put out her hand as if to brush her away.

"Buzz away, Bee, but get a little farther off,—you drive me distracted."

"That's the way she always acts," said Marie, with a sigh; "we can't do anything with her! It's a pity she was ever nicknamed Bee, for, when she begins buzzing, she's a regular nuisance."

"Sometimes I'm a drone," Bee announced, and with that she began a droning sound that was worse than the buzzing, and kept it up till it set their nerves on edge.

"Oh, Bee, dear!" Marie begged of her, "WON'T you stop that and be nice?"

Bee's only answer was a long humming drone.

Patty looked at the girl kindly. "I want to like you," she said, "and I think it's unkind of you not to let me do it."

Bee stopped her droning and considered a moment. Then she smiled, and when her elfin face broke into laughter, she was a pretty picture, indeed.

"I DO want you to like me," she said, impulsively, grasping Patty's hands; "and I will be good. You know I'm like the little girl,—the curly girlie, you know,—when she was good she was awful drefful good, and when she was bad she was horrid."

"I'm sure you couldn't be horrid," and Patty smiled at her, "but all the same I don't believe you can be very, VERY good."

"Oh, yes, I can; the goodest thing you ever saw! Now watch me," and sure enough during the rest of Patty's stay, Beatrice was as charming and delightful a companion as any one you'd wish to see. She was bubbling over with fun and merriment, but she refrained from teasing, and Patty took a decided liking to her.

"I'll make a party for you, Bee," she said. "What kind would you like?"

"Not a stiff, stuck-up party. I hate 'em. Can't it be a woodsy kind of a thing?"

"A ramble through the park?"

"More woodsy than that. The park is almost like the city."

"Well, a picnic to Bronx Park, then, or Van Cortlandt."

"That sounds better. But I'll come to any party you make,—I know it will be lovely. Oh, I'll tell you, Patty, what I'd like best. To go on one of your Saturday afternoon jinks; with the queer, poor people, you know."

"They're not queer and they're not always very poor," returned Patty, seriously; "I'm afraid you'd tease them or make fun of them."

"Honest Injun, I wouldn't! Please let me go, and I'll be heavenly nice to them. They'll simply adore me! Please, pretty Patty!"

"Of course I will, since you've promised to be nice to them."

"Oh, you lovely Patty! Don't you sometimes get tired of being so pink and white?"

"Of course I do. I wish I could be brown and dark-eyed like you."

"You'd soon wish yourself back again. Can't you combine the woodsy party and the Happy Chaps, or whatever you call them?"

"I think we can," smiled Patty, who had already planned a Saturday afternoon picnic, and would be glad to include Bee.

"But Bee has to learn to behave properly at formal parties," said Marie. "I'm going to give a luncheon for her, while she's at home, and it's going to be entirely grown-up and conventional."

"Don't want it!" and Bee scowled darkly.

"That doesn't matter. Mother says we must have it, and that you must behave properly. You have to learn these things, you know."

"Oh, Bee will do just exactly right, I know," said Patty, as she rose to go. "If she doesn't, we can't let her come to the picnic. When is the luncheon, Marie?"

"We haven't quite decided yet, but I must send out the invitations in a day or two."

Patty went home, thinking about this sister of Marie's.

"She's an awfully attractive little piece," she said to Nan, later, "but you never can tell what she's going to do next. I think if she had the right training, she'd be a lovely girl, but Mrs. Homer and Marie spoil her with indulgence and then suddenly scold her for her unconventionality. Perhaps the school she's attending will bring her out all right, but she's a funny combination of naughty child and charming girl. She would stop at nothing, and I don't wonder that they say when she and Kit Cameron get together, look out for breakers."

A few days later, Patty received an invitation to Marie's luncheon for her sister.

It was formally written, and the date set was Tuesday, April the eighth, at half-past one. Patty noted the day on her engagement calendar, and thought no more about it at the time. But a day or two later it suddenly occurred to her that she had heard that Beatrice was to return to school on the seventh of April.

"I must be mistaken about her going back," Patty thought, remembering the luncheon on the eighth, and then, lest she herself might be mistaken in the date, she looked at the invitation again. It read "the eighth," and though Marie's handwriting was scrawly and not very legible, the figure eight was large and plain.

"She ought to have spelled it out," said Patty, who was punctilious in such matters.

"Yes," agreed Nan, "it's those little details that count so much among society people."

"Well, the Homers are dears, but they lack just that little something that makes people know when to spell their figures and when not to. I think it's horrid when people spell a date in ordinary correspondence. But an invitation is another thing. But I say, Nan,—Jiminetty crickets!"

"I'm not sure that date-spelling people ought to refer to those crickets," said Nan, lifting her eyebrows.

"Well, Jerusalem crickets, then! and every kind of crickets in the ornithology or whatever they belong in. But, Nan, I've discovered something!"

"What, Miss Columbus?"

"Oh, I'm a Sherlock Holmes! I'm Mr. D. Tective! What DO you think?"

"If you really want to know, I think you're crazy! jumping around like a wild Indian, and you a this season's debutante!"

"Rubbish! most debutantes are wild Indians at times. But, Nan, I've discovered their secret! Hah! the vilyuns! but they shall be foiled! foiled!! FOILED!!!"

Patty raged up and down the room, melodramatically clutching at her hair and staring at Nan with her blue eyes. "It is a deep-laid plot, but it shall be foiled by Patricia Sherlock,—the only lady detective in captivity!"

"Patty, do behave yourself! What is the matter with you? You act like a lunatic!"

"I'll tell you, Nan, honey," and Patty suddenly sat down on the couch, among a pile of pillows. "But first read that invitation and see if you see anything unusual or suspicious about it."

"I can hardly read it; for this writing looks like that on the obelisk,—or at least it's nearly as unintelligible. But it seems to say that Mrs. Robert Homer requests the pleasure of your company at luncheon on Tuesday, April the eighth, at half-past one o'clock. Nothing criminal about that, is there?"

"Is there! There is, indeed! Nan, you're the dearest, sweetest, loveliest lady in the whole world, but you can't see a hole through a ladder. So I'll tell you. The date of that party is really April the FIRST. I mean, Marie wrote April the first! And if you'll observe, somebody else has put a twisty line around that ONE and made it into an EIGHT! Why, it's as plain as day!"

"It certainly is, Patty," and Nan looked at the girl in astonishment and admiration. "How did you ever happen to notice it?"

"Why, it just jumped out at me. See, a different pen was used. The line is thicker. And nobody would make an EIGHT that way. They'd make it all with one pen mark. And this is a straight up-and-down ONE, and that rest of it was put on later. And, anyway, Nan, if there were any doubt, don't you see it isn't TH after it as it ought to be for the eight, it's ST?"

"You can't tell which it is in this crazy handwriting," and Nan scrutinised the page.

"Yes, you can," and Patty stared at it. "You wouldn't notice the difference, if you weren't looking for it, but it IS ST. I see it all, Nan! You know Bee didn't want this luncheon, and to get out of it, she changed that date before the invitations were sent! And you see, by the eighth, she'll be back in school!"

"Are both dates Tuesday?" said Nan, thinking.

"Yes, of course, they are. Isn't it clever? Oh, Bee never got this up all by herself,—that Kit helped her."

"But, Patty, then nobody will go on the first, and the Homers will be all prepared—"

"That's just what Bee wants! One of her practical jokes! Oh, Nan, I do detest practical jokes."

"So do I! I think they're ill-bred."

"But the Homers don't think that, and Kit Cameron doesn't, either. We've discussed that matter lots of times, and we never agree. And, besides, Nan," and Patty had a new inspiration, "don't you see, this party was planned for the first of April, and Bee and Kit will call this thing an April Fool joke, and therefore entirely permissible. April Fool's Day is their Happy Hunting Ground. But I'm going to foil this thing, and don't you forget it! Seems to me it would be a pretty good joke if I'd turn the tables on those two smarties."

"How can you, Patty?"

"I haven't quite thought it out yet, but I have an idea."

"But, Patty, wait a minute. Perhaps they only changed the date on yours,—just to fool you, you know."

"Good gracious, Nan! perhaps that's so! How did you come to think of it? But I'll soon find out."

Patty flew to the telephone, and in a short time learned that both Mona and Elise were invited for the eighth, and she concluded that the plotters had changed the date on all the invitations.

Next she called up Marie, and without letting her know why, asked for a list of the luncheon guests.

Marie told her at once, without asking why she wanted to know.

There were nine beside the Homers, and Patty was acquainted with them all.

She called them up each in turn on the telephone, and explained carefully that a mistake had been made in the invitations, and she hoped they would come on the first instead of the eighth.

Fortunately, all of them were able to do this, and Patty enjoined each one to say nothing about this change of date, until they should arrive at the party.

To a few of her more intimate friends,—Mona, Elise, and