im in the course of the day."

Mary's attentive face saddened when she heard those words.

"Must you really go away, George," she whispered, "before you see what I
have got waiting for you at home?"

I remembered Mary's promised "surprise," the secret of which was only
to be revealed to me when we got to the cottage. How could I disappoint
her? My poor little lady-love looked ready to cry at the bare prospect
of it.

I dismissed the servant with a message of the temporizing sort. My love
to my mother--and I would be back at 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.

"What did you once say you wished you had in your boat?" she asked.

"Was it long ago?" I inquired, at a loss for an answer.

"Long, long ago! Before the winter. When the autumn leaves were falling,
and you took me out one evening for a sail. Ah, George, _you_ have
forgotten!"

Too true, of me and of my bre