to-night for?"
said she, trying to speak unconsciously.

"To see Elmira?"

"No, to give both of you an invitation to tea at Aunt Camilla's
to-morrow afternoon at five o'clock."

"I am very much obliged to you," said Jerome, "but--"

"You cannot come?"

"No, I am afraid not."

"The tea is to be in the arbor in the garden, the way it was that
other time, when we were both children; there is to be plum-cake and
the best pink cups. Nobody is asked but you and your sister and
Lawrence Prescott," said Lucina, but with no insistence in her voice.
Her gentle pride was up.

"I am very much obliged, but I am afraid I can't come," Jerome said,
pleadingly.

Lucina did not say another word.

Jerome glanced down at her, and her fair face, between the folds of
her white shawl, had a look which smote his heart, so full it was of
maiden dignity and yet of the surprise of pain.

A new consideration came to Jerome. "Why should I stay away from her,
refuse all her little invitations, and treat her so?" he thought.
"What if I do get to wanting her more, and get hurt, if it pleases
her? There is no danger for her; she does not care about me, and will
not. The suffering will all be on my side. I guess I can bear it; if
it pleases her to have me come I will do it. I have been thinking
only of myself, and what is a hurt to myself in comparison with a
little pleasure for her? She has asked me to this tea-party, and here
I am hurting her by refusing, because I am so afraid of getting hurt
myself!"

Suddenly Jerome looked at Lucina, with a patient and tender smile
that her father might have worn for her. "I shall be very happy to
come," said he.

"Not unless you can make it perfectly convenient," Lucina replied,
with cold sweetness; "I would rather not urge you."

"It will be perfectly convenient," said Jerome. "I thought at first I
ought not to go, that was all."

"Of course, Aunt Camilla and I will be very happy to have you come,
if you can," said Lucina. Still, she was not appeased. Jerome's
hesitating acceptance of this last invitation had hurt her more than
all that had gone before. She began to wish, with a great pang of
shame, that she had not gone to his house that night, had not tried
to see him, had not proposed this miserable party. Perhaps he did
mean to slight her, after all, though nobody ever had before, and how
she had followed him up!

She walked on very fast; they were nearly home. When they reached her
ga