the house in half an hour.     

       We entered the cottage.     

       Dame Dermody was sitting in the light of the window, as usual, with one of the mystic books of Emanuel Swedenborg open on her lap. She solemnly lifted her hand on our appearance, signing to us to occupy our customary corner without speaking to her. It was an act of domestic high treason to interrupt the Sibyl at her books. We crept quietly into our places. Mary waited until she saw her grandmother’s gray head bend down, and her grandmother’s bushy eyebrows contract attentively, over her reading. Then, and then only, the discreet child rose on tiptoe, disappeared noiselessly in the direction of her bedchamber, and came back to me carrying something carefully wrapped up in her best cambric handkerchief.     

       “Is that the surprise?” I whispered.     

       Mary whispered back: “Guess what it is?”      

       “Something for me?”      

       “Yes. Go on guessing. What is it?”      

       I guessed three times, and each guess was wrong. Mary decided on helping me by a hint.     

       “Say your letters,” she suggested; “and go on till I stop you.”      

       I began: “A, B, C, D, E, F—” There she stopped me.     

       “It’s the name of a Thing,” she said; “and it begins with F.”      

       I guessed, “Fern,” “Feather,” “Fife.” And here my resources failed me.     

       Mary sighed, and shook her head. “You don’t take pains,” she said. “You are three whole years older than I am. After all the trouble I have taken to please you, you may be too big to care for my present when you see it. Guess again.”      

       “I can’t guess.”      

       “You must!”      

       “I give it up.”      

       Mary refused to let me give it up. She helped me by another hint.     

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