“Is it morning? I should say it’s most noon! An’ a wagon— But I won’t tell. Only— Mother! Belle went to bed in her clothes, an’ they’re all wrinkly up!”
“Why, folks! What’s all this?”
“Go downstairs at once, Robert!” commanded the sister as sternly as she could, and dragged herself to the window. But from that side of the house nothing unusual was to be seen, and, beginning to think over her last night’s fright, she smiled at her own plight. “Mother will be sure to ask why I did this, and my freshly ironed gown is sadly tumbled, after all. Humph! I wonder if I dreamed the whole thing!”
Ten minutes later, after a hasty toilet and freshening of her garb, she descended to the lower floor only to find it deserted and the whole family congregated on the west side of the house, gazing with surprise and perplexity upon a shining “express wagon” which stood there.
“Why, folks! what’s all this?”
“That’s exactly what we wish to find out,” returned Mrs. Beckwith, turning a very smiling face toward her belated daughter. “Some fairies must have been at work here during the night, and we cannot guess who they are. Rather, we may guess, but I do not feel at all sure. See! isn’t it really handsome?”
There was no mistaking that the vehicle was intended for one of them; for on the brand-new curtains which covered its sides was plainly painted, “Parcel Express,” and on the box of the wagon, at the back, a modest legend: “Beckwith, The Lindens, New Windsor, N. Y.”
“Of course it’s from the Brooks,” asserted Isabelle, promptly.
“Of course it isn’t,” returned Beatrice, her feet beating a restless tattoo to her joyful thoughts, “because here is a note pinned to the cushion of the seat.” And she tossed the other the paper, which each of the family had scrutinized in turn.