ssengers carry everything.

No, he was ordered to give it to Miss Anstice herself.

"Very well," said Winifred, "bring it in by all means. Perhaps some
one has mixed things a little, and fancies that it is _my_ birthday
that we are celebrating."

So in came the package, and with it a great bunch of violets, and a
card which said, "The little girl at the corner sends you these."

I saw Winifred's hands tremble as she untied the ends of the package.
The wrappings fell off and she saw a picture.

"What--who is it?" Winifred asked, turning from one to another of us
with bewilderment in her eyes.

"A relative of yours, I believe," Mr. Flint answered quietly. "Her
name is Ruth. She formed the habit of eloping in her youth, and had
not the heart to refuse my entreaties to run away with me when I left
Nepaug."

Then in an instant it flashed across Winifred and all of us
that this was the portrait for which she had been searching all
summer (any one might have recognized it, for the resemblance to
Winifred about the eyes and mouth is unmistakable), and she knew of
course that Mr. Flint had been the one to find it. Her way of taking
the affair was very characteristic. There was no tearful tremulous
gratitude like Nora Costello's, but a great overflow of pride and
gladness. Rising, with her just filled wine glass in her hand, and her
head thrown back a little as if in a pride which had a shade of
defiance in it, she called out, "A health!--a health! Here's to my
great-great-grandmother, the runaway bride, and to the generous man
who restored her to the bosom of her family!"

Every one looked bewildered, but all laughed and drank the toast (I
noticed that the Costellos drank theirs in water), and then began to
ask questions as fast as they could talk. The health broke up the
feast, and every one crowded about the portrait. As Winifred and Mr.
Flint stood close behind me, I overheard, this time without intention,
upon my honor, an exchange of remarks between them.

"You have shown yourself very generous, Mr. Flint," Winifred remarked.
"You will not surely be so _un_generous as not to let us make some
little return for your gift. I am not ignorant that such a portrait
has a value besides that of sentiment."

"You touch me there on a sore point, Miss Anstice," Mr. Flint
answered. "I am afraid the person to whom you are really indebted is
old Marsden, for I knew if I offered him anything like the real value
of the picture,