esent!'

It did not exactly help on the progress of self-control, that
at this point Dingee came in, bearing in both hands a lovely
basket of hot-house grapes and nectarines, themselves
specimens of perfection, with a long wreathing stem of
wonderful white orchids laid across its other treasures.
Dingee evidently enjoyed his share in the business, for his
white teeth were in a glitter.

'Mass' Morton, Miss Hazel. He done send 'em to my young
mistiss, wid his greatest 'spects. He say he done percolate de
Hollow and couldn't find nuffin more gorgeous, or he's send
_him_.'

'Dingee!' said his young mistress, flashing round upon him,
'do you venture to bring me a made-up message? Take the basket
to Mr. Falkirk!'

But she shrank back then, as they saw, with extreme shyness.
The little fingers trembled, trying to busy themselves among
spoons and cups; and one pitiful glance towards Mr. Falkirk
besought him to take the affair into his own hands, and send
whatever return message might be needful. O to be a child, and
put her head down under the table! And instead of that she
must keep her place--and she did, with the most ladylike
quietness. Mr. Falkirk had reason to be content with her for
once.

'Nobody waiting, is there, Dingee?' said Mr. Falkirk.

'Ye' sir.'

'Take him this, and send him off politely; but no message,
Dingee, if you want to wag your tongue in _this_ house!'

'Ye' sir. Got to be one somehow, sure!' said Dingee. ' 'Bout
sumfin Mass' Morton done say to Miss Hazel. Real stupid feller
he is dat come--can't make out what he says, nohow.'

'About a drive,' said Wych Hazel, looking over once more at
her guardian. 'I expect you to say no, sir.'

'What did _you_ say, my dear?'

'I said I would ask you, sir--the shortest way to a negative.'
Her lips were getting in a curl again.

Mr. Falkirk went out to speak to Mr. Morton's messenger, and
coming back again stood looking down at the basket of fruit
with the wreath of white orchids lying across it.

'I hope you are grateful to fortune, my dear,' he remarked
rather grimly.

'I hope you are, sir,--_I_ have nothing to do with that concern,'
said Wych Hazel with prompt decision.

'You don't know,' said Mr. Falkirk. 'It's an enchanted basket,
Miss Hazel. Looks innocent enough; but I know there are
several little shapes lurking in its depths--ants or flies or
what not--which a little conjuration from you would turn into
carriage horses, pony and all.'