Everybody was going, of course.
The Deans had taken for the season a beautiful old homestead, the owners
of which were in Europe. They were having gala times there, and they
managed to draw all the young folks of the village in to share them.
All, indeed, except one little girl. Cynthia Mason did not expect to go
to many festivities, but with her whole heart she longed to see what a
lawn party might be. The very name sounded beautiful to her, and she
said it over and over wistfully as she went slowly down the door-yard
between the tigerlilies and the hollyhocks, through the rough gate which
hung so clumsily on its leathern hinges, and, with her basket by her
side, began her daily task of picking beans.
Cynthia Mason had no mother. Her father loved his little daughter and
was kind to her, but he was a silent man, who was not very successful,
and who had lost hope when his wife had died. People said he had never
been the same man since then. His sister, Cynthia's Aunt Kate, was an
active, stirring woman, who liked to be busy herself and to hurry other
people. She kept the house as clean as a new pin, had the meals ready to
the moment, and saw that everybody's clothing was washed and mended; but
she never felt as if she had time for the kissing and petting which is
to some of us as needful as our daily food.
In her way she was fond of Cynthia, and would have taken good care of
the child if she had been ill or crippled.
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