selected for her "all alone by
herself," and that had come out of the saving of more than a
half-year's allowance of precious pocket-money.

"Now, Nan!" said Miss Blake, when the first excitement had somewhat
subsided, "there is one more surprise that Delia and Mr. Turner and I
have planned for you, and as I expect it to arrive at any moment now,
and as it is pretty big I want you to help clear away these tables to
give it lots of room to move about in. We want to get everything out
of the way and all the presents safely stowed aside upstairs so nothing
will be broken. While we are going back and forth you may guess what
it is, if you like."

"A bicycle?" ventured Nan, striding upstairs with her kodak in one arm
and a bundle of books in the other.

"No, it's not a bicycle. Guess again. I'll give you two more,"
answered the governess, following after her with her load.

"I know what I want next to a bicycle."

"What?"

"I don't like to say."

"Why?"

"Well, you know," hesitated the girl, "if I said what it was, and if
what you've got turned out something different, you might feel
disappointed because you might think I did."

Miss Blake smiled. "That's a generous thought, Nan," she said; "but I
give you free leave to speak out."

Even now the girl hesitated, and stood awkwardly balancing herself
against the baluster-rail. "Even if you wanted to you couldn't give it
to me," she blurted out, at length.

"Why?" repeated Miss Blake.

"Because--oh, because--it wouldn't come," she cried, with a rueful
laugh.

"Now that sounds ominous," exclaimed the governess, as she and Nan
started on their last trip. "It sounds as if you wanted a horse, or
something of that sort, that might prove balky."

"No, it isn't a horse. But it's balky enough, if that's all."

"Then tell me why it wouldn't come?"

Nan let her armful of gifts fall on her counterpane in a heap. "Oh,
because--because--its mothers don't approve of me. What I want is a
party, so there! and I couldn't have one because, even if my father
could afford it, no one would come. Grace Ellis wouldn't, nor Mary
Brewster, nor any of those girls I'd want. They turn up their noses at
me because they think I don't know how to behave. Once Louie Hawes
spoke to me and I liked her, but the next time I saw her she looked the
other way, and I suppose some one had told her something she didn't
approve of. So she wouldn't come either--no matter how much I ask