the basket, tumbled all its contents on
the table, until she reached the scarf, which she tossed towards the
major, saying, with a faint laugh--

"There, unbeliever--heathen--is _that_ nothing? Was that made in a
minute, think you?"

"_This!_" cried the major, opening the beautiful, glossy fabric in
surprise. "Is not this one of my father's old sashes, to which I have
fallen heir, in the order of nature?"

Maud dropped her trinkets, and seizing two corners of the sash, she
opened it, in a way to exhibit its freshness and beauty.

"Is this _old_, or _worn?_" she asked, reproachfully. "Your
father never even saw it, Bob. It has not yet been around the waist of
man."

"It is not possible!--This would be the work of months--is _so_
beautiful--you cannot have purchased it."

Maud appeared distressed at his doubts. Opening the folds still wider,
she raised the centre of the silk to the light, pointed to certain
letters that had been wrought into the fabric, so ingeniously as to
escape ordinary observation, and yet so plainly as to be distinctly
legible when the attention was once drawn to them. The major took the
sash into his own hands altogether, held it opened before the candles,
and read the words "Maud Meredith" aloud. Dropping the sash, he turned
to seek the face of the donor, but she had fled the room. He followed
her footsteps and entered the library, just as she was about to escape
from it, by a different door.

"I am offended at your incredulity," said Maud, making an effort to
laugh away the scene, "and will not remain to hear lame excuses. Your
new regiment can have no nature in it, or brothers would not treat
sisters thus."

"Maud _Meredith_ is not my sister," he said, earnestly, "though
Maud _Willoughby_ may be. Why is the name Meredith?"

"As a retort to one of your own allusions--did you not call me Miss
Meredith, one day, when I last saw you in Albany?"

"Ay, but that was in jest, my dearest Maud. It was not a deliberate
thing, like the name on that sash."

"Oh! jokes may be premeditated as well as murder; and many a one _is_
murdered, you know. Mine is a prolonged jest."

"Tell me, does my mother--does Beulah know who made this sash?"

"How else could it have been made, Bob? Do you think I went into the
woods, and worked by myself, like some romantic damsel who had an
unmeaning secret to keep against the curious eyes of persecuting
friends!"

"I know not what I thought--scarce know what I