nd forks, all engraved; a lovely
card basket, swung by a silver chain, from the finger of a winged
Mercury; two beautiful napkin rings, marked "Walter" and "Beatrice;" a
dozen of the finest damask napkins, with a gorgeous "B." in the corner;
and lastly, a fancy dust-pan and brush, an indescribable sweeping cap,
six of the most perfect kitchen aprons, a patent stove-hook, and an old
shoe, with "Good Luck," painted in red letters on the sole.

"Oh, I declare, I never did!" cried Bea, sitting down on the floor, to
laugh and cry at the same time. "Isn't it all too lovely!"

"What does the card say?" asked Jean, as the others began to carry in
the china and things. "Just

"'BEATRICE,
FROM
AUNT TREMAYNE AND RALPH,'"

answered Bea, looking at the card, that had been tied with a white
ribbon to the nose of the tea-pot. "How good they are! I'm too happy to
live."

So it seemed, as she helped take in the things, laughing and crying, and
touching them with careful, caressing fingers. They made a most imposing
show when arranged on the table, and during the day more modest
presents, that came in from well wishing friends, were added to the
collection. There came a fancy clock from Mr. Dane, three dozen handsome
towels and four beautiful table spreads from Mrs. Dane; and a variety of
little things from the young people, with whom Bea was a favorite.

As soon as Mr. Congreve and Olive arrived, on the evening train, they
were taken in to view "the show," but the old gentleman added nothing to
it, to every one's surprise; though he seemed pleased with everything
there, and said it was a plenty for one bride.

After supper, Olive disappeared and was gone some little time, but
where, no one knew, and finally Mr. Congreve jumped up, with the remark,
that he had heard her say something about Mrs. Dane's, and as he knew
where it was, he guessed he'd walk over after her.

"Never mind, Uncle Ridley, if she is there, Mr. Dane will walk home with
her, and you must be tired," said Mrs. Dering.

"God bless my soul, Elizabeth! I'm not an old man," exclaimed the crusty
old gentleman of seventy odd years, as he threw open the door, and
strode briskly out into the May moonlight. "I think a great deal of your
Olive; she's a thorough Congreve, and I'd rather lose my best
handkerchief than have anything happen to her--I had indeed. So go in,
my dear, go in," and Mrs. Dering obediently went in, as he tramped
briskly down the wal