“To whom it may concern: This cart is for the young farmer. It does not come from either Mr. or Miss Brook, but from another well-wisher, who hopes it will be accepted in the same spirit with which it is offered.
“A Friend.”
“A friend, I should think so!”
“Isn’t it queer that none of us heard it brought here?” asked Roland, whose eyes were shining even more dazzlingly than the varnish of the “express” in the sunshine.
“But one of us did; I heard it,” said Belle.
“And didn’t tell us?”
“I thought it was burglars.”
“Burglars! Pshaw! If you’d only looked out you might be able to tell who rolled the thing here. I can’t wait to know to whom I am indebted, to thank him or her. Mother, are you sure it isn’t you?”
“Perfectly sure; besides, my son, you have asked me that question already a half-dozen times, and each time I have answered that I knew no more about the matter than you do. I wish I did; I don’t quite like—”
“Now, Motherkin! Of course you will let us keep it! I know what you are thinking; but if my Laureate has enough sense to be willing to drive an ‘Express Parcel’ or a ‘Parcel Express’ for the good of the house of Beckwith, I hope you won’t put rocks in his road!”