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 foolishness. Kenneth couldn’t go—he admitted that himself—and Walter couldn’t—thank goodness for that—and Jem and Jerry would have more sense. She wouldn’t worry—she would enjoy herself. But how awkward Mark Warren was! How he bungled his steps! Why, for mercy’s sake, did boys try to dance who didn’t know the first thing about dancing; and who had feet as big as boats? There, he had bumped her into somebody! She would never dance with him again.

But she danced with others, though the zest was gone out of the performance and she had begun to realize that her slippers hurt her badly. Kenneth seemed to have gone—at least nothing was to be seen of him. After all, her first party was spoiled, though it had seemed so beautiful at one time. Her head ached—her toes burned. And worse was yet to come. She had gone down with some over-harbour friends to the rock shore where they all lingered as dance after dance went on above them. It was cool and pleasant and they were tired. Rilla sat Silent, taking no part in the gay conversation. She was glad when some one called down that the over-harbour boats were leaving. A laughing scramble up the lighthouse rock followed. A few couples still whirled about in the pavilion but the crowd had thinned out. Rilla looked about her for the Glen group. She could not see one of them. She ran into the lighthouse. Still, no sign of anybody. In dismay she ran to the rock steps, down which the over-harbour guests were hurrying. She could see the boats below—where was Jem’s—where was Joe’s?

“Why, Rilla Blythe, I thought you’d gone home long