And she didn't either; so next day, after Juliet and Anna were gone, I went out behind the smokehouse and cried until I got sleepy, and a headache too; then, wishing to make mother think I had _run away_, I crept carefully up-stairs to Bill's room, where I slept until Sally's sharp eyes ferreted me out, saying, "they were all scared to death about me, and had looked for me high and low," up in the garret and down in the well, I supposed.

Concluding they were plagued enough, I condescended to go down-stairs, and have my head bathed in camphor and my feet parboiled in hot water; then I went to bed and dreamed of white teeth, curling mustaches and "_Parlez vous Francais_." Of what occurred at the party I will tell you as was told to me.

All the _elite_ of Rice Corner were there, of course, and as each new arrival entered the parlor, M.Penoyer eyed them coolly through an opera glass.

Sister Anna returned his inspection with the worst face she could well make up, for which I half-blamed her and half didn't, as I felt sure I should have done the same under like circumstances.
When all the invited guests had arrived except myself (alas, no one asked why I tarried), there ensued an awkward silence, broken only by the parrot-like chatter of M.Penoyer, who seemed determined to talk nothing but French, although Carrie understood him but little better than did the rest.

At last he was posted up to the piano.
"_Mon Dieu_, it be von horrid tone," said he; then off he dashed into a galloping waltz, keeping time with his head, mouth, and eyes, which threatened to leave their sockets and pounce upon the instrument.
Rattlety-bang went the piano--like lightning went monsieur's fingers, first here, then there, right or wrong, hit or miss, and oftener miss than hit--now alighting among the keys promiscuously, then with a tremendous thump making all bound again--and finishing up with a flourish, which snapped two strings and made all the rest groan in sympathy, as did the astonished listeners.