afternoon, she was almost frantic with fatigue and nervousness. The
house had been cleaned thoroughly the day before, rugs shaken,
mirrors polished, floors oiled; the grand piano had been closed, and
pushed against the wall; the reading-table had been cleared, and
wheeled out under the turn of the stairway; the pretty drawing-room
and square big entrance hall had been emptied to make room for the
seven little card-tables that were already set up, and for the
twenty-eight straight-back chairs that Mrs. Carew had collected from
the dining-room, the bedrooms, the halls, and even the nursery, for
the occasion. All this had been done the day before, and Mrs. Carew,
awakening early in the morning to uneasy anticipations of a full
day, had yet felt that the main work of preparation was out of the
way.

But now, in mid-afternoon, nothing seemed done. There were flowers
still to arrange; there was the mild punch that Santa Paloma
affected at card parties to be finished; there was candy to be put
about on the tables, in little silver dishes; and new packs of
cards, and pencils and score-cards to be scattered about. And in the
kitchen--But Mrs. Carew's heart failed at the thought. True, her own
two maids were being helped out to-day by Mrs. Binney from the
village, a tower of strength in an emergency, and by Lizzie Binney,
a worthy daughter of her mother; but there had been so many stupid
delays. And plates, and glasses, and punch-cups, and silver, and
napkins for twenty-eight meant such a lot of counting and sorting
and polishing! And somehow George and the children must have dinner,
and the Binneys and Celia and Annie must eat, too.

"Well," thought Mrs. Carew, with a desperate glance at the kitchen
clock, "it will all be over pretty soon, thank goodness!"