examined the parcel. When he came to the cinder, he looked up once
more, and Polly jumped from the window with a prolonged "Oh!"

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"Oh, dear!" cried Polly; "it's the old gentleman next door!"

For several days we lived in unenviable suspense. Every morning did we
expect to be summoned from the school-room to be scolded by Aunt
Maria. Every afternoon we dreaded the arrival of "the old gentleman
next door" to make his formal complaint, and, whenever the front-door
bell rang, Polly and I literally "shook in our shoes."

But several days passed, and we heard nothing of it. We had given up
the practice in our fright, but had some thoughts of beginning again,
as no harm had come to us.

One evening (by an odd coincidence, my birthday was on the morrow) as
Polly and I were putting away our playthings preparatory to being
dressed to go down to dessert, a large brown-paper parcel was brought
into the nursery addressed jointly to me and my cousin.

"It's a birthday present for you, Regie!" Polly cried.

"But there's your name on it, Polly," said I.

"It must be a mistake," said Polly. But she looked very much pleased,
nevertheless; and so, I have no doubt, did I. We cut the string, we
tore off the first thick covering. The present, whatever it might be,
was securely wrapped a second time in finer brown paper and carefully
tied.

"It's _very_ carefully done up," said I, cutting the second string.

"It must be something nice," said Polly, decisively; "that's why it's
taken such care of."

If Polly's reasoning were just, it must have been something very nice
indeed, for under the second wrapper was a third, and under the third
was a fourth, and under the fourth was a fifth, and under the fifth
was a sixth, and under the sixth was a seventh. We were just on the
point of giving it up in despair when we came to a box. With some
difficulty we got the lid open, and took out one or two folds of
paper. Then there was a lot of soft shavings, such as brittle toys and
gimcracks are often packed in, and among the shavings was--a small
neatly-folded white-paper parcel. _And inside the parcel was a
cinder._

We certainly looked very foolish as we stood before our present. I do
not think any of the people we had taken in had looked so thoroughly
and completely so. We were both on the eve of crying, and both ended
by laughing. Then Polly--in those trenchant tones which recalled Aunt
Maria forcibly to o