e ensuing rush from store to store, piloted
by Bertram and Miss Belinda, and protected by Mr. Sylvester, was her one
weird glimpse into the Arabian Nights' country. Why, she could not have
told; why, she did not stop to think. She had been to all these places
before, but never with such a heart as this--never, never with such an
overflowing heart as this.

"I have washed away my reproach," cried Mr. Sylvester, coming out to the
carriage with his arms full of bundles. "Aunt Belinda is to blame for
this; she set the example, you see." And with a merry laugh, he tossed
one thing after another into Paula's lap, reserving only one small
package for himself. "I scarcely know what I have bought," said he. "I
shall be as much surprised as any one, when you come to undo the
bundles. 'A pretty thing,' was all I waited to hear from the shop
girls."

"There is a small printing press for one thing," cried Paula merrily. "I
saw the man at Holton's eye you with a certain sort of shrewd humor, and
hastily do it up. You paid for it; probably thinking it one of the
'pretty things.' We shall have to make it over to Bertram, as being the
only one amongst us who by any stretch of imagination can be said to be
near enough the age of boyhood to enjoy it."

"I do not know about that," cried Bertram, with a ringing infectious
laugh, "my imagination has been luring me into believing that I am not
the only boy in this crowd."

And so they went on, toying with their new-found joy as with a
plaything, and hard would it have been to tell in which of those voices
rang the deeper contentment.

The opening of the packages on the library-table afforded another season
of merriment. Such treasures as came to light! A roll of black silk,
which could only have been meant for Miss Belinda. A casket of fretted
silver, just large enough to hold Paula's gloves; a scarf-ring, to which
no one but Bertram could lay claim; a bundle of confections, a pair of
diamond-studded bracelets, a scarf of delicate lace, articles for the
desk, and knick-knacks for the toilet table, and last, but not least, in
weight at least, the honest little printing-press.

"Oh, I never dreamed of this," said Paula, "when we chose Christmas eve
for our journey."

"Nor would you have done right to stay away if you had," returned Mr.
Sylvester gayly.

But when the sport was all over, and Paula stood alone with Mr.
Sylvester in the library, awaiting his last good-night, the deeper
i