s and Mr. Dinwiddie for the present. The looks and
smiles of the company were unmistakable. Who would speak first?

"How are you to reach the epergne, Daisy?" said her father.

"Shall I be the medium?" said Mrs. Gary. "These things are to travel up
to Daisy, I suppose."

"I will represent the rolling stock of this road, and undertake to carry
parcels safely," said Mr. McFarlane. "Any message with the goods, Mrs.
Gary?"

"I believe they carry their own message with them," said the lady;--"or
else I don't see what is the use of these little white tickets. Where
shall I begin, Mr. Randolph?"

"I do not think the order of proceedings will be criticised, provided it
does not delay," said Daisy's father.

"Then transmit this, Gary."

"Literary freight"--said Gary McFarlane, handing over to Daisy a little
parcel of books. Five or six little volumes, in pretty binding--Daisy
looked eagerly to see what they might be. "Marmion"--"The Lady of the
Lake"--Scott's Poetical Works.

"O thank you, papa!" said Daisy, looking delighted.

"Not me," said Mr. Randolph. "I am not to be thanked."

"There's no name in them--" said Daisy.

"That's Preston's gift," said her aunt. Preston was Daisy's oldest
cousin; a fine boy of sixteen.

"I like it so much, Preston!" said Daisy, sending a grateful look down
the table to where he sat.

"Is Daisy fond of poetry?" inquired Mr. McFarlane with a grave look.

"Very fond," Mrs. Randolph said.

"Dangerous taste!" said Gary. "What is this new consignment?"

"Something valuable--take care of it."

"To be taken with care--right side up," said Gary, putting before Daisy
by a stretch of his long arm a little paper covered package. Daisy's
cheeks were beginning to grow pink. She unfolded the package.

A little box--then white cotton--then a gold bracelet.

"Mamma?--" said Daisy instantly. Mrs. Randolph stooped and kissed her.

"It's beautiful, mamma!" Daisy spoke very earnestly; however her face
did not shew the light of pleasure which the first gift had called into
it.

"How did you know so well?" said Mr. McFarlane. "Mrs. Randolph, I am
afraid you are not literary. Now Daisy, exercise your discernment upon
that."

It was a little box containing a Chinese puzzle, with the plans and keys
belonging to it.

"Where do you think _that_ comes from?"

Daisy looked up. "I think--perhaps--from _you_, Mr. McFarlane."

"Do you think I am anything like a puzzle?"

"I think--perhaps--you