for the little mother had come into the kitchen in time to hear it.
There was a pained expression on her face.

"I am afraid my bird of passage will never be satisfied with the little
home nest again," she said, sadly.

"Oh, mother, I didn't mean it as bad as it sounds; truly, I didn't,"
cried Joyce. "You know that usually I am as contented as a cricket; but
I don't know what is the matter with me to-day. It must be the weather."

Just then there was a stamping on the porch outside, and the violent
flapping of an umbrella to rid it of the raindrops clinging to it.

"Jack!" shouted Mary, rushing to the door, with Holland and the baby
tagging at her heels. "A letter for Joyce!" they called in chorus the
next instant, all straggling back after the oldest brother as he bore it
triumphantly into the kitchen.

"From Lloydsboro Valley," announced Joyce, and Mrs. Ware's face lighted
up with one of her rare smiles.

"Ah, I knew it was coming," she said, "and I am sure it will prove an
antidote for your blues. I had a letter from the same place last week,
and I've been in the secret ever since."

"What secret?" demanded Mary, her eyes round with curiosity, and Jack
echoed the question.

"That Joyce was to be invited to a house party in June, back in 'My old
Kentucky home.' The invitation is from one of my old school friends.