He laid the basket in Ricky's outstretched hands.
"I've never seen anything like this before." She turned it around. "It seems to be woven of some awfully fine grass—"
"That's swamp work." Charity was peering over Ricky's shoulder. "Open it."
Inside on a nest of raw wild cotton lay a bracelet of polished wood carved with an odd design of curling lines which reminded Val of Spanish moss. And with the circlet was a small purse of scaled hide.
"Swamp oak and baby alligator," burst out Charity. "Aren't they beauties?"
"But who—" began Ricky.
Val picked up a scrap of paper which had fluttered to the floor. It was cheap stuff, ruled with faint blue lines, but the writing was bold and clear: "Miss Richanda Ralestone."
"It's yours all right." He handed her the paper.
"I know." She tucked the note away with the gifts. "It was Jeems."
"Jeems? But why?" her brother protested.