Mr. Leicester was in the Department of North American Prehistoric¹ Remains², and had a jar of earth before him which he was examining with closest interest. "Here's a bit of charred³ bone," he was saying eagerly to a wise-looking old gentleman, "and here's a funeral bead—just as I expected. This proves my theory of the sacrificial—Why, Betty, what's the matter?" and he looked startled for a moment. "A telegram?"  
"It was so very important, you see, papa," said Betty.
 
"I thought it was bad news from Tideshead," said Mr. Leicester, looking up at her with a smile after he had read it. "Well, my dear, that's very nice, and very important too," he added, with a fine twinkle in his eyes. "I shall be going out for a bit of luncheon⁴ presently, and I'll send the answer with great pleasure."
 
Betty's cheeks were brighter than ever, as if a rosy⁵ cloud of joy were shining through. "Now that I'm here, I'll look at the arrowheads; mayn't I, papa?" she asked, with great self-possession. "I should like to see if I can find one like mine—I mean my best white one that I found on the river-bank last summer."
 
Papa nodded, and turned to his jar again. "You may let Pagot go home at one o'clock," he said, "and come back to find me here, and we'll go and have luncheon together. I was thinking of coming home early to get you. We've a house to look at, and it's dull weather for what I wish to do here at the museum. Clear sunshine is the only possible light for this sort of work," he added, turning to the old gentleman, who nodded; and Betty nodded sagely⁶, and skipped away with Pagot, to search among the arrowheads.
 
She found many white quartz⁷ arrowpoints and spearheads like her own treasure. Pagot thought them very dull, and was made rather uncomfortable by the Indian medicine-masks and war-bonnets and evil-looking war-clubs, and openly called it a waste of time for any one to have taken trouble to get all that heathen rubbish together. Such savages⁸ and their horrid⁹ ways were best forgotten by decent folks, if Pagot might be so bold as to say so. But presently it was luncheon time; and the good soul cheerfully departed, while Betty joined her father, and waited for him as still as a mouse for half an hour, while he and the scientific old gentleman reluctantly said their last words and separated. She had listened to a good deal of their talk about altar fires, and the ceremonies that could be certainly traced in a handful of earth from the site of a temple in the mounds¹⁰ of a buried city; but all her thoughts were of Lady Mary and the pleasures of the next week. She looked again at the telegram, which was much nicer than most telegrams. It was so nice of Lady Mary to have said dear in it—just as if she were talking; people did not often say dear in a message. "Perhaps some of her guests can't come; but then, everybody likes to be asked to Danesly," Betty thought. "And I wonder if I shall dine at table with the guests; I never have. At any rate, I shall see Lady Mary often and be with papa. It is perfectly¹¹ lovely! I can give her the Indian basket I brought her, now, before the sweet grass is all dry."
 
It was a great delight to be asked to the holiday party; many a grown person would be thankful to take Betty's place. For was not Lady Mary a very great lady indeed, and one of the most charming women in England?—a famous hostess and assembler of really delightful¹² people?
 
"I am going to Danesly on the seventeenth," said Betty to herself, with satisfaction.