"A stitch in time saves nine."
"O Pris, Pris, I'm really going! Here's the invitation--rough paper--Chapel--spreads--
Lyceum Hall--everything splendid; and Jack to take care of me!"
As Kitty burst into the room and performed a rapturous _pas seul_, waving the cards over
her head, sister Priscilla looked up from her work with a smile of satisfaction on her quiet
face.
"Why, Jack, of course,--dear old cousin Jack. Nobody else ever thinks of me, or cares
whether I have a bit of pleasure now and then. Isn't he kind? Mayn't I go? and, O Pris,
what _shall_ I wear?"
Kitty paused suddenly, as if the last all-important question had a solemnizing effect upon
both mind and body.
"Why, your white muslin, silk sacque, and new hat, of course," began Pris with an air of
surprise. But Kitty broke in impetuously,--
"I'll never wear that old muslin again; it's full of darns, up to my knees, and all out of
fashion. So is my sacque; and as for my hat, though it does well enough here, it would be
absurd for Class Day."
"You don't expect an entirely new suit for this occasion,--do you?" asked Pris, anxiously.
"Yes, I do, and I'll tell you how I mean to get it. I've planned everything; for, though I
hardly dreamed of going, I amused myself by thinking how I could manage if I _did_ get
invited."
"Let us hear." And Pris took up her work with an air of resignation.
"First, my dress," began Kitty, perching herself on the arm of the sofa, and entering into
the subject with enthusiasm. "I've got the ten dollars grandpa sent me, and with eight of it
I'm going to buy Lizzie King's organdie muslin. She got it in Paris; but her aunt
providentially--no, unfortunately--died; so she can't wear it, and wants to get rid of it. She
is bigger than I am, you know; so there is enough for a little mantle or sacque, for it isn't
made up. The skirt is cut off and gored, with a splendid train--"
"My dear, you don't mean you are going to wear one of those absurd, new-fashioned
dresses?" exclaimed Pris, lifting hands and eyes.
