ure in the box had not been chosen in any picture-shop; and
at sight of it Peggy sat down on the bed and began to cry.

"Oh, dear!" she said. "What shall I do? Oh, Margaret, Margaret, what
shall I do?"

Kind-hearted Bertha was distressed. "Don't cry, dear!" she said. "I
know! I know just how it feels. Is it your father and sister?"

"No! oh, no!" said Peggy, wiping her eyes. "Of course it's different
with Pa and the girls, because I shall be going home every vacation,
you know. But I never was so happy in all my life as I was there; and
seeing it--it is Fernley, and Uncle John and Margaret."

The large photograph showed a stately house shadowed by lofty trees.
Standing on the stone verandah were two figures, one, that of a tall man
in a black velvet coat, with bright dark eyes; the other a slender girl
with a sweet, thoughtful face. Both seemed to be looking straight at
Peggy, and she felt Uncle John's kind look and Margaret's tender smile
like warmth at her heart.

"I--I'm only crying because--I'm--glad!" she said. And Bertha seemed to
understand that, too.

But the wonderful box was not yet empty; it really seemed like the
famous bag of the Fairy Blackstick. Out came a gay Oriental cloth, which
made another thing of the chilly little polished table; item, a
bureau-cover embroidered with gold-coloured chrysanthemums; item, a
wonderful work-basket, fitted with everything that a needlewoman's heart
could desire; item, a spirit-lamp and a hot-water bottle, and a neat
little tool-chest. Peggy sighed over the work-basket, and resolved to do
her very best, but at sight of the tool-chest her eyes sparkled, and she
seized upon it with delight, and caressed each shining implement as if
it were a living and beloved creature.

"Did you ever see such a little duck of a saw?" she cried. "Oh, I must
go to work and make something this very day. Only, these two dears have
sent me everything that I could ever possibly need. What is that,
Bertha? There can't be anything more!"

There could, though, and was. The bottom of the box was fitted with a
cushion or mattress of chintz, chrysanthemums again, on a pale green
ground; and the last parcel of all contained several yards of the same
material.

"What do you suppose-- Oh, I see!" cried Peggy. "The box,--we wondered
why it was such a good box, don't you know? It is to be a kind of sofa,
or window-seat, or something; and this is the cushion, and the rest is
for a flounce and cur